n- 


mayiA^^^r^  /1/^t^ 


THE  fLIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


CHARLES    DICKENS: 

%  Moment's  gl^nT0ri;aI  BalnmL 


BY 

PHEBE  A.   HANAFORD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  LIFE   OF  PEABOD^V     "  LIFE  OF  LINCOLN,"   ETC. 


"I  have  always  striven  in  my  writings  to  express  veneration  for  the  life  and 
leBsone  of  our  Saviour;  because  I  feel  it."  —  Charles  Dickens. 


BOSTON  : 
PUBLISHED  BY  B.  B.  RUSSELL,  55  CORNHILL. 

SAN"  FRANCISCO:    A.  L.  BANCROFT  &  CO. 
TORONTO,  ONT.:    A.  H.  HOVEY. 

1871, 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870, 

Bv  PHEBE  A.   HANAFORD, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


BOSTON  J 
STKRKOTYPED    AND    PRINTED   BV    RAND,    AVERY,    &    FRYK. 


To 

THE   WOMEN    OF   AMERICA. 

Srijts  Folumc, 

WHICH  CONTAINS  A   RECORD  OF  THE   LIFE  AND   DEATH  OF 


WITH  TENDER   AND  TOUCHING   PASSAGES   FROM   HIS   WORKS,  WHICH  ARE 

CALCULATED  TO   AWAKEN   PURE  AND   SACRED   EMOTIONS   IN 

THE  HEARTS  OF  ALL  WHO  PERUSE  THEM, 

IS 

NOW  INSCRIBED. 


PEEFAOE. 


/^HARLES  DICKENS  was  a  popular  writer.  "  Tte  common 
^-^  people  heard  him  gladly,"  and  read  his  books  with  an  avidity 
which  showed  that  he  reached  the  heart  with  his  graphic  and  sympa- 
thizing pen.  His  genius  was  evident  to  all  classes  of  readers  ;  and  edi- 
tions of  his  attractive  novels  have  been  so  multiplied  and  so  varied,  that 
they  are  found  in  the  houses  of  the  lofty  and  the  lowly.  The  Queen 
of  England  gives  his  admirable  creations  place  in  her  private  library ; 
and  the  humble  cottager  on  her  broad  lands  prizes  also  his  copy  of 
"  Nicholas  Nickleby  ''  and  "  Oliver  Twist ;  "  and  both  read  his  books 
with  a  zest  which  shows  that  the  genius  of  the  writer  claimed  the 
admiration  of  the  reader,  and  his  tender  sympathy  with  lowly  worth 
touched  answering  chords  in  many  a  human  heart. 

This  woi'ld-wide  interest  in  the  works  of  Dickens  has  induced  the 
publication,  in  many  forms,  of  his  books,  and,  now  that  he  has  passed 
from  earth,  will  induce  the  publication  of  many  sketches  of  his  life, 
more  or  less  exhaustive.  On  the  shelves  of  booksellers,  on  both  sides 
the  Atlantic,  will  soon  be  seen  biographies,  sketches,  and  other  memo- 
rial volumes,  giving  some  picture,  more  or  less  distinct,  of  the  earthly 
career  of  this  prince  among  novelists. 

This  volume  is  one  of  the  many.  It  is  not  pretended  that  it  is 
exhaustive  l  it  is  not  designed  to  be  such.  Across  the  broad  waters, 
among  his  own  immediate  friends,  perhaps  in  his  own  family  circle,  will 
be  found  a  biographer  wholly  prepared  to  do  full  justice  to  the  man 

5 


6  PREFACE, 

and  the  author.  Meanwhile,  his  admirers  this  side  the  Atlantic, 
speJiing  the  language  whose  literature  he  has  helped  to  enrich,  will 
render  loving  tribute  to  his  genius,  and  a  grateful  acknowledgment 
of  the  pleasure  exjierienccd  in  jierusing  his  masterly  creations,  by 
publishing  various  volumes  in  his  memory,  briefly  sketching  his  life, 
and  pointing  out  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  excellent  passages  in 
his  numerous  books.     This  is  what  is  attempted  here. 

Women  have  greatly  enjoyed  his  writings.  They  have  wept  over 
little  Nell,  and  Paul  Dombey,  and  poor  Joe ;  they  have  laughed 
over  the  inimitable  wit  whieli  flashed  along  the  pages  of  Pickwick 
and  others  of  his  works  ;  and  so  it  is  but  right  and  pi'oper  that  they 
should  have  their  memorial  volumes.  The  simple  claim  which  this 
book  urges  is,  that  it  belongs  to  that  class,  and  is  issued  with  the 
hope  that  women  will  enjoy  it,  and  be  benefited  by  its  perusal ;  being 
at  least  lifted  into  closer  sympathy  with  one  who  saw  the  pathetic 
and  the  ridiculous  very  clearly,  and  used  his  power  to  depict  both 
for  the  benefit  of  humanity  at  large,  and  the  poorer  classes  in  particu- 
lar.    Some  writers  see,  to  use  Shakspeare's  familiar  words,  — 

"  Tongues  in  the  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
SeiTnons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

And  Charles  Dickens  saw  in  rich  and  poor,  in  high  and  low,  in  Eng- 
lishman and  American,  in  men  and  women,  in  boys  and  girls,  some- 
thing which  his  unique  pen  could  portray  for  the  advantage  of  his 
readers.  Such  an  individual,  faulty  as  he  is  sometimes  confessed  to 
be  both  as  a  man  and  a  writer,  should  be  prized  in  a  nation.  His 
death  is  a  calamity  to  his  readers,  and  a  loss  to  the  literature  of  his 
age ;  and  with  this  sentiment  prominent  in  the  writer's  heart  13 
prepared  this  Memorial.  p.  a.  h. 

New  Haven,  Conn. 


COISTTEI^TS. 


Preface »      ,      »      ,      6 

CHAPTER   I. 

EARLY   LIFE. 

Birthplace.  — YouthfulLabors.  — The  Attorney's  Clerk.  —  Finding  his  Place. — 

Beginnings.  —  The  Young  Reporter 9 

CHAPTER    II. 

ADVANCING. 

Steadily  On.  —  Sketches  by  Boz.  —  Wine-drinking  Countries.  —  Our  Next-door 

Neighbors.  —  The  Drunkard's  Grave.  —  Sporting  Papers       ....      14 

CHAPTER    III. 

CLIMBING     THE    LADDER. 

Willis's  Description  of  Dickens. — His  Inimitable  Humor. —  Emerson's 
Criticism.  —  Hugh  Miller's  Opinion.  —  London  Review.  —  Pickwick  Pa- 
pers. —  Sam  Weller's  Valentine.  —  The  Ivy  Green.  —  Death  in  the  Prison,       45 

CHAPTER   rV. 

FAMOUS. 

The   Novelist. — E.  P.Whipple's  Testimony.  —  Oliver  Twist.  —  Asking  for 

More.  —  Pauperism  in  England.  —  Nancy  Sykes.  —  Jew  Fagin      ...      71 

CHAPTER   V. 

ONE    OF    HIS    BEST. 

Nicholas   Nickleby. —  Opinion    of  "The   Methodist."  —  Thackeray's.  —  The 

Squeers  School.  —  Henry  Ward  Beecher's  Testimony         ....    109 

CHAPTER   VI. 

OTHER    NOVELS. 

Master  Humphrey's  Clock. —  London  Years  Ago.  —  Country  Picture.  —  Barnaby 
Rudge.  —  Old  Curiosity  Shop.  —  Death  of  Little  Nell.  —  Mr.  Dickens's 
Speech.  —  Funeral  of  Little  Nell.  —  Landor's  Testimony.  —  Child-Pictures 
from  Dickens.  —  Memoirs  of  Grimaldi 141 

CHAPTER   Vn. 

FIRST    VISIT    TO    THE    UNITED    STATES. 

Testimony  of  the  New -York  Tribune.  —  American  Notes  for  General 
Circulation.  —  Wholesome  Truths  for  a  Nation.  —  Slavery.  —  Bad  Man- 
ners.—  AUeghanies.  —  Niagara 175 

CHAPTER   Vni. 

CHRISTMAS    CAROLS. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit.  — Pictures  from   Italy.  — First  Carol.  — Tiny  Tim.— -The 

Chimes.  —  Cricket  on  the  Hearth .        .    208 


■■P' 


8  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEK   IX. 

•WHAT    ARE    THE    WILD    WAVES    SATING? 

The  Daily  News.  — Dombey  and  Son.  — Bi-ath  of  Little  Paul      ....    290 
CHAPTEH    X. 

HIS    MASTERPIECE. 

The  Rpality  of  Fiction .  —  David  Coppertiold.  —  Opinion  of  Prascr's  ilasiazine.  — 

The  tjiiip wreck.  —  Uriah  JJeep.  —  Liltli;  Em'ly .  —  A  Lone,  Lorn  Oreetur     .    307 

CHAPTER    XI. 

RETURNS    TO    HIS    EAKLY    PRACTICE. 

Bleak  House.  —  Death  of  Poor  Jo.  —  Uncommercial  Traveller     ....    319 
CHAPTER    Xn. 

LATER    WORKS. 

LittleDorritt.  — Hard  Times.— Dr.  Marigold 324 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

AS    AN    EDITOR. 

Householil  Words.  —  All  the  Year  Round.  —  Great  Expectations. —  Tale   of 

Two  Cities ■         .         .    328 

CHAPTER    XiV. 

AMERICAN    POPULARITY. 

The  Diamond  Edition.  —  Portraits  of  Mr.  Dickens.  —  Our  Mutual  Friend  .        .    335 
CHAPTER    XV. 

SECOND    VISIT    TO    AMERICA. 

Dickons  as  a  Reader  and  Actor.  — His  First  Appearance  in  Boston.  — His  Last 

ilcading  in  Boston 340 

CriAPTER    XVI. 

DICKENS    AT    HOME. 

His  Domestic  Relations.  — Gad's  Hill.  — Shakspeare's  Mention  of  it  .        .        .353 
CHAPTER    XVn. 

THE    UNFINISHED    STORY. 

Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood.  — Sudden  Illness.  — Death 368 

CHAPTER    X\ail. 

LAST    WORDS. 

Last  Loftprs  of  Mr.  Dickens. -The  Queen's  Sorrow.  — A  Nation  mourns.- 

The  Funeral  of  the  Great  Xovelist 377 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

AMERICA'S     SYMP.VTHY. 

How  the  Xews  of  Mr.  Dickens's  Death  was  received.  —  Henry  Ward  Bceclier's 

Sermon.  —  The  Voice  of  the  Press 383 

CH.VPTER    XX. 

THE    INFLUENCB    OF    CII.VRLES    DICKENS. 

Sympathy  for  the  Poor.  —  Love  for  the  Young.  —  The  Golden  Rule    .        .        .395 


LIFE  AJ^D  WRITINGS 


CHAELES  DICKENS, 


CHAPTER    I. 


EARLY    LIFE. 


Birthplace.— Youthful  Labors.  — The  Attorney's  Clerk.  — Finding  his  Place.  — Be- 
ginnings. —  The  Young  Reporter. 

"  There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will." 

Hamlet. 
"  There  is  a  spirit  in  men,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  giveth  them  under- 
standing."—  Job  XXX.  il.  8. 

ilCROSS  the  broad  waters  to  the  daughter- 
land  has  been  borne  once  more  the  tidings 
of  a  sudden  and  lamented  departure  ;  and 
the  two  nations  that  have  so  lately  united 
in  sympathy  and  in  posthumous  honor  to  a 
great  philanthropist  now  mourn  unitedly  the  loss  of 
a  g]-cat  novelist.  George  Peabody  and  Charles  Dickens 
are  honored  on  both  sides  the  Atlantic,  and  wherever 
else  their  native  tongue  is  spoken,  or  the  value  of  a 

9 


10  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

benevolent  heart  or  a  genius  for  story-telling  is  known. 
Tlie  departure  of  Charles  Dickens  at  least  has  av/a- 
kened  sad  emotions  in  many  hearts.  V/ell  does  "  The 
Independent "  call  it  ''  The  General  Sorrow,"  and  go 
on  to  say,  — 

"  It  makes  our  hand  quiver  to  write  the  obituary 
of  Charles  Dickens.  Death  jarred  two  nations  when 
it  struck  this  man.  Yv^hat  reader  did  not  claim  this 
author  for  a  friend  ?  Which  of  his  critics  was  not  also 
his  lover?  Both  in  England  and  America,  there  are 
multitudes  of  men,  women,  and  children,  who,  as  long 
as  they  live,  Avill  remember  exactly  where  they  were, 
what  they  were  doing,  and  what  hour  of  the  clock  it 
was,  wdien  they  heard  the  sudden  announcement  that 
Charles  Dickens  was  no  more.  The  telegraph  that  car- 
ried the  news  of  his  fatal  illness  flew  in  one  sad  moment 
round  the  whole  earth,  to  spread  a  shadow  on  all  Eng- 
lish-speaking lands.  The  first  answering  voice  of  the 
American  press  aclcnowledged  that  the  mournful  mes- 
sage was  the  saddest  which  the  Atlantic  cable  had  ever 
conducted  to  our  coasts.  Almost  everybody  whom  Ave 
have  met  since  Friday  morning  has  seemed  bearing  in 
his  hands  a  chaplet  for  the  dead  man's  bier.  No  other 
author  ever  came  so  near  as  Dickens  to  the  hearts  of  the 
million  ;  and  his  death  has  been  like  the  opening  of  a 
grave  at  their  very  feet.  A  hundred  pens,  in  writing 
their  first  notice  of  the  event,  spontaneously  said  (and 
moro  truly  than  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  the  death  of  Gar- 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  11 

rick)  that  it  '  eclipsed  tlie  gayety  of  nations.'  There 
have  been  many  greater  men  in  literature  than  Dick- 
ens, but  none  who  were  ever  so  universally  loved  and 
mourned.  To  be  loved  in  life,  and  mourned  in  death  ! 
What  better  fortune  can  the  earth  afford  to  any  one 
who  lives  or  dies  ?  This  is  the  most  successful  of  all 
success.     Charles  Dickens  achieved  it. 

"What  manner  of  man,  therefore,  must  he  have  been? 
Of  what  fibre  was  his  genius  made  ?  He  was  the  John 
Bunyan  of  the  secular  world.  He  was  the  unpriestly 
preacher  to  the  wayside  multitude,  rebuking  them  for 
their  follies,  vices,  and  deceits.  His  novels  are  little 
gospels  of  charity  and  good- will  to  all  mankind.  And 
great  was  his  reward.  '  The  common  people  heard  him 
gladly.'  To  win  the  world's  ear  is  a  nobler  victory  than 
to  win  a  nation's  throne.  He  was  a  British  subject 
Avhose  empire  was  wider  than  a  British  sovereign's.  He 
knocked  at  the  common  heart  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
opened  it  like  a  gate,  entered  in,  took  possession,  and 
will  not  go  hence  even  to  his  burial,  but  will  there  re- 
main affectionately  enshrined  for  years  to  come." 

The  many  thousands  who  have  read  the  incompara- 
ble works  of  Charles  Dickens's  ready  pen,  while  mourn- 
ing over  the  fact  that  liis  farewell  readings  in  England 
were  indeed  as  a  farewell  to  all  the  earth,  are  eager  to 
read  any  memorial  sketch  of  their  favorite  novehst ;  and 
to  them,  at  least,  it  will  be  of  interest  to  know  that  he 
was  born  at  Landport,  Portsmouth,  England,  in  the  year 


12  LIFE    AND    "WRITINGS    OF 

of  the    second  war  between    England    and   America, 
1812. 

His  father's  name  was  John  Dickens,  and  he  held  a 
position  in  the  Navy  Pay  Department.  At  the  close  of 
the  war  with  the  United  States,  Mr.  Dickens  removed 
to  London,  having  received  a  pension  upon  retiring. 
He  there  became  connected  with  one  of  the  daily  jour- 
nals as  reporter  of  parliamentary  debates.  As  time 
rolled  on,  his  son  Charles  became  of  years  sufficient  to 
justify  him  in  marking  out  a  path  in  life  for  him  ;  and 
he  chose  that  of  the  law,  and  placed  Charles  in  an  at- 
torney's office  as  clerk.  But  the  study  of  law  was  dis- 
tasteful to  the  youthful  genius,  whose  talents  for  writ- 
ing were  early  evident.  Literary  occupations  were  his 
delight ;  and,  though  he  was  a  dihgent  student,  it  was 
human  nature  and  human  life  that  he  preferred  to  study, 
and  then  depict  with  his  glowing  pen.  He  was  not  the 
first,  by  any  means,  to  whose  young  mind  the  occupation 
chosen  by  a  parent  was  utterly  devoid  of  attraction. 
The  attorney's  clerk  only  found  his  place  when  he  left 
off  poring  over  "  Blackstone,"  "  Coke  upon  Littleton," 
and  kindred  volumes,  weighty  with  legal  lore,  and  be- 
gan to  picture  those  scenes  which  live  in  the  reader's 
memory  forever.  God  called  him  to  be  a  %vriter ;  and, 
until  he  found  his  place,  he  was  not  content. 

Yet  he  did  not  commence  at  once  to  write  novels,  and 
to  display  his  marvellous  power  in  delineating  char- 
acter, and   creating   personages   in  literature  that  will 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  13 

never  die.  He  began,  as  many  a  bright  star  in  the  lit- 
erary firmament  has  begun,  by  shining  first  Avith  the 
occasional  beams  of  a  newspaper  contributor.  He  be- 
came connected  with  "  The  Morning  Chronicle,"  as  a 
reporter.  This  was  a  newspaper  of  great  popularity, 
under  the  management  of  Mr.  John  Black,  who  saw  at 
once  the  ability  of  the  young  reporter,  and  gave  him 
ample  opportunity  to  display  his  talent  for  making  word 
pictures,  and  for  calling  forth  both  tears  and  smiles,  by 
publishing  in  his  paper  the  "  Sketches  of  English  Life 
and  Character ; "  which  were  collected  and  reprinted 
under  the  title  of  "  Sketches  by  Boz,"  m  1836  and  1837. 
"  Boz  "  was  his  signature  in  "  The  Morning  Chronicle  ; " 
and  he  gave,  as  the  reason  for  his  use  of  it,  that  it  "  was 
the  nickname  of  a  pet  child,  —  a  younger  brother,  — 
whom  I  had  dubbed  Moses,  in  honor  of  the  '  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,'  which,  being  facetiously  pronounced  through 
the  nose,  became  Bases,  and,  being  shortened,  Boz.  Boz 
was  a  very  familiar  household  word  to  me  long  before  I 
was  an  author,  and  so  I  came  to  adopt  it."  This  begin- 
ning of  his  true  work  showed  both  the  writer  and  his 
readers  that  English  literature  could  claim  as  a  charm- 
ing story-writer  young  Charles  Dickens. 


CHAPTER    II. 


ADVANCING. 

Steadily   On.  — Sketches   by   Boz.  — AVine-drinking   Countries.  —  Our   Next-door 
Neighbors.  —  The  Drunkard's  Grave. — Sporting  Papers. 

"  Though  a  plodcfc  I  had  to  shiver, 
And  the  longest  ever  was, 
Ere  his  vessel  leaves  our  river, 
I  would  driak  a  health  to  Boz." 


nooD. 


"  The  pen  of  a  ready  writer." 


PsAiM  slv.  T. 


S  already  intimated,  Charles  Dickens  was 
persevering,  and  kept  steadily  on  in  the 
path  of  literature,  which  to  him  was  most 
hiring,  rie  held  "the  pen  of  a  ready 
writer  ;  "  and  he  was  disposed  to  use  it  in 
the  interests  of  morality  and  good  order.  He  showed, 
in  the  "  Sketches  Ijy  Boz,"  a  faculty  of  illustration 
wliicli  marked  him  as  one  Avho  muHt  l)e  successful.  The 
pathos  and  humor  which  blended  in  his  tales  were  even 
then  seen  to  be  remarkable.  From  those  sketches,  these 
pages  are  enriched  by  extracts  proving  the  truth  of  the 
atjsertion,  wliich,  to  the  reader  familiar  with  the  works 

14 


CHARLES     DICKFNS.  15 

of  Dickens,  needs  no  proof.  These  extracts  are  far  from 
indicating  that  Dickens  favored  intemperance,  or  failed 
to  see  its  folly  and  sin.  He  had  himself  the  bad  habits 
of  an  Englishman  who  is  not  in  favor  of  total  absti- 
nence ;  but  it  is  not  right  to  say  of  him  that  he  encour- 
aged the  drunkard  in  his  evil  course.  While  the  be- 
lievers in  the  duty  of  total  abstinence  cannot  but  regret 
that  the  great  novelist  did  not  use  his  powerful  pen 
in  favor  of  teetotalism,  they  cannot  but  acknowledge 
that  he  left  on  record  evidence  that  he  did  not  approve 
of  a  career  of  intemperance.  His  testimony  in  refer- 
ence to  wine  countries  is  often  adduced  by  temperance 
lecturers,  as  conclusive  against  the  wine-drinking  habits 
of  many  foreign  lands.  It  first  appeared  in  '•'  Household 
V/ords,"  Dickens's  journal,  and  has  been  copied  into 
"  The  Good  Templar,"  an  American  temperance  paper, 
as  an  evidence  that  Charles  Dickens  did  not  favor  the 
prevalence  of  wine-shops.     These  are  the  words :  — 

"  The  wine-shops  are  the  colleges  and  chapels  of  the 
poor  in  France.  History,  morals,  politics,  jurispru- 
dence, and  literature,  in  iniquitous  forms,  are  all  taught 
in  these  colleges  and  chapels,  vfhere  professors  of  evil 
continually  deliver  those  lessons,  and  where  hymns  are 
sung  nightly  to  the  demons  of  demoralization.  In  those 
haunts  of  the  poor,  theft  is  taught  as  the  morality  of 
propriety,  falsehood  as  speech,  and  assassination  as  the 
justice  of  the  people.     It  is  in  the  wine-shop  the  cab- 


16  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

inau  is  taught  to  think  it  heroic  to  shoot  the  middle- 
class  man  who  disputes  his  fare.  It  is  in  the  wine-shop 
the  workman  is  taught  to  admire  the  man  who  stabs  his 
faithless  mistress.  It  is  in  the  wine-shop  the  doom  is 
pronounced  of  the  employer  who  lowers  the  pay  of  the 
employed.  The  wine-shop  breeds,  in  a  physical  atmos- 
phere of  malaria  and  a  moral  pestilence  of  envy  and 
vengeance,  the  men  of  crime  and  revolution.  Hunger 
is  proverbially  a  bad  counsellor,  but  di-ink  is  worse." 

From  his  "  Sketches  by  Boz,"  the  following  is  given, 
as  an  example  of  the  mingling  of  humor  and  pathos  so 
noticeable  in  his  writings.     It  is  entitled,  — 

«  OUR  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBORS. 

"  We  are  very  fond  of  speculating,  as  we  walk 
through  a  street,  on  the  character  and  pursuits  of  the 
people  who  inhabit  it ;  and  nothing  so  materially  assists 
us  in  these  speculations  as  the  appearance  of  the  house- 
doors.  The  various  expressions  of  the  human  coun- 
tenance afford  a  beautiful  and  interesting  study  ;  but 
there  is  something  in  the  physiognomy  of  street-door 
knockers,  almost  as  characteristic,  and  nearly  as  infal- 
lible. Whenever  we  visit  a  man  for  the  first  time,  we 
contemplate  the  features  of  his  knocker  with  the  great- 
est curiosity ;  for  we  well  know,  that,  between  the  man 
and  his  knocker,  there  will  inevitably  be  a  greater  or 
less  degree  of  resemblance  and  sympathy. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  17 

"  For  instance,  there  is  one  description  of  knocker  that 
used  to  be  common  enough,  but  which  is  fast  passing 
awa}^  —  a  large  round  one,  with  the  jolly  face  of  a  con- 
vivial lion  smiling  blandly  at  you,  as  you  twist  the  sides 
of  your  hair  into  a  curl,  or  pull  up  your  shirt-collar 
while  }"ou  are  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened.  Vv^e 
never  saw  that  knocker  on  the  door  of  a  churlish  man  : 
so  far  as  our  experience  is  concerned,  it  invariably 
bespoke  hospitality  and  another  bottle. 

"  No  man  ever  saw  this  knocker  on  the  door  of 
a  small  attorney  or  bill-broker :  they  always  patronize 
the  other  lion,  —  a  heavy,  ferocious-looking  fellow,  with 
a  countenance  expressive  of  savage  stupidity,  —  a  sort 
of  grand  master  among  the  knockers,  and  a  great 
favorite  with  the  selfish  and  brutal. 

"  Then  there  is  a  little  pert  Egyptian  knocker,  with 
a  long,  thin  face,  a  pinched-up  nose,  and  a  very  sharp 
chin  :  he  is  most  in  vogue  with  your  government-office 
people ;  in  light  drabs  and  starched  cravats ;  little, 
spare,  priggish  men,  who  are  perfectly  satisfied  with 
their  own  opinions,  and  consider  themselves  of  para- 
raomit  importance. 

"  We  Avere  greatly  troubled,  a  few  years  ago,  by  the 
innovation  of  a  new  kind  of  knocker,  without  any  face 
at  all,  composed  of  a  wreath  depending  from  a  liand 
or  small  truncheon.  A  little  trouble  and  attention, 
however,  enabled  us  to  overcome  this  difficulty,  and  to 
reconcile  the  new  system  to  our  favorite  theor3^     You 


18  LIFE  AND   WHITINGS    OF 

\vill  invariably  find  this  knocker  on  the  doors  of  cold 
and  formal  people,  who  always  ask  you  why  you  dont 
come,  and  never  say  do. 

"  Everybody  knows  the  brass  knocker  is  common  to 
suburban  villas  and  extensive  boarding-schools ;  and, 
having  noticed  this  genus,  we  have  recapitulated  all 
the  most  prominent  and  strongly-defined  species. 

''  Some  phrenologists  affirm,  that  the  agitation  of 
a  man's  brain  by  different  passions  produces  correspond- 
ing developments  in  the  form  of  his  skull.  Do  not  let 
us  be  understood  as  pushing  our  theory  to  the  length 
of  asserting  that  any  alteration  in  a  man's  disposition 
would  produce  a  visible  efi"ect  on  the  feature  of  his 
knocker.  Our  position  merely  is,  that,  in  such  a  case, 
the  magnetism  which  must  exist  between  a  man  and  his 
knocker  would  induce  the  man  to  remove,  and  seek 
some  knocker  more  congenial  to  his  altered  feehngs. 
If  you  ever  find  a  man  changing  his  habitation  without 
any  reasonable  pretext,  depend  upon  it,  that,  although 
he  may  not  be  aware  of  the  fact  himself,  it  is  because 
he  and  his  knocker  are  at  variance. 

"  Entertaining  these  feelings  on  the  subject  of  knock- 
ers, it  will  be  readily  imagined  wilh  what  consternation 
we  viewed  the  entire  removal  of  the  knocker  from  the 
door  of  the  next  house  to  the  one  we  lived  in  some  time 
ago,  and  the  substitution  of  a  bell.  This  was  a  calamity 
we  liad  never  anticipated.  The  bare  idea  of  anybody 
being  able  to  exist  without  a  knocker  appeared  so  wild 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  19 

and  visionary,  that  it  had  never  for  one  instant  entered 
oui"  imaoination, 

"  We  sauntered  moodily  from  the  spot,  and  bent  our 
steps  towards  Eaton  Square,  then  just  building.  What 
was  our  astonishment  and  indignation  to  find  that  bells 
were  fast  becoming  the  rule,  and  knockers  the  excep- 
tion !  Our  theory  trembled  beneath  the  shock.  We 
hastened  home ;  and  fancying  we  foresaw,  in  the  swift 
progress  of  events,  its  entire  abolition,  resolved  from 
that  day  forward  to  vent  our  speculations  on  our  next- 
door  neighbors  in  person.  The  house  adjoining  ours  on 
the  left  hand  was  uninhabited,  and  we  had,  therefore, 
plenty  of  leisure  to  observe  our  next-door  neighbors  on 
the  other  side. 

"  The  house  without  the  knocker  was  in  the  occupa- 
tion of  a  city  clerk ;  and  there  was  a  neatly- written  bill 
in  the  parlor  window,  intimating  that  lodgings  for 
a  single  gentleman  were  to  be  let  within. 

"  It  was  a  neat,  dull  httle  house,  on  the  shad}''  side 
of  the  way,  with  new,  narrow  floor-cloth  in  the  passage, 
and  new  narrow  stair-carpets  up  to  the  first  floor.  The 
paper  was  new,  and  the  paint  was  new,  ^nd  the  furniture 
was  new;  and  all  three — paper,  paint,  and  furniture 
—  bespoke  the  limited  means  of  the  tenant.  There  was 
a  little  red-and-black  carpet  in  the  drawing-room,  with 
a  border  of  flooring  all  the  way  round ;  a  few  stained 
chairs,  and  a  Pembroke  table.  A  pink  shell  was  dis- 
played on  each  of  the  little  sideboards ;  which,  with  the 


20  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OP 

addition  of  a  tea-tray  and  caddy,  a  few  more  shells 
on  the  mantle-piece,  and  three  peacock's  feathers  taste- 
fully arranged  above  them,  completed  the  decorative 
furniture  of  the  apartment. 

''  Tin's  was  the  room  destined  for  the  reception  of  tlie 
single  gentleman  during  the  day  ;  and  a  little  back  room 
on  the  same  floor  was  assigned  as  his  sleeping  apartment 
I)}'  night. 

""  The  bill  had  not  been  long  in  the  windov,%  when 
a  stout,  good-humored-looking  gentleman,  of  about  five 
and  thirty,  appeared  as  a  candidate  for  the  tenancy. 
Temis  were  soon  arranged,  for  the  bill  was  taken  down 
immediately  after  his  first  visit :  in  a  day  or  two,  the 
single  gentleman  came  in,  and  shortl}^  afterwards  his 
real  character  came  out. 

"  First  of  all,  he  displayed  a  most  extraordinary  par- 
tiality for  sitting  up  till  three  or  four  o'clock  in  tlie 
morning,  drinking  whiskey  and  water,  and  smoking 
cigars  ;  then  he  invited  friends  home,  who  used  to  come 
at  ten  o'clock,  and  begin  to  get  happy  about  the  small 
hours,  when  they  evinced  their  perfect  contentment  by 
singing  songs  w^h  half  a  dozen  verses  of  two  lines  each, 
and  a  chorus  of  ten,  which  chorus  used  to  be  shouted 
fortli  ])y  the  whole  strength  of  the  companj^  in  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  vociferous  manner,  to  the  great 
annoyance  of  the  neighbors,  and  the  special  discomfort 
of  another  single  gentleman  overhead. 

"  Now,  this  was  bad  enough,  occurring  as  it  did  three 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  21 

times  a  week  on  the  average.  But  this  was  not  all ; 
when  the  company  did  go  away,  instead  of  walking 
quietly  down  the  street,  as  anybody  else's  company 
would  have  done,  they  amused  themselves  by  making 
alarming  and  frightful  noises,  and  counterfeiting  the 
shrieks  of  females  in  distress.  And,  one  night,  a  red-faced 
gentleman  in  a  white  hat  knocked  in  a  most  urgent 
manner  at  the  door  of  the  powdered-headed  old  gentle- 
man at  No.  3  ;  and  when  the  powdered-headed  old  gen- 
tleman, who  thought  one  of  his  married  daughters  must 
have  been  taken  ill  prematurely,  had  groped  down 
stairs,  and,  after  a  great  deal  of  unbolting  and  key-turn- 
ing, opened  the  street-door,  the  red-faced  man  in  the 
white  hat  said  he  hoped  he'd  excuse  his  giving  him  so 
much  trouble,  but  he'd  feel  obliged  if  he'd  favor  him 
with  a  glass  of  cold  spring  water,  and  the  loan  of  a  sliil- 
ling  for  a  cab  to  take  him  home :  on  which  the  old  gen- 
tleman slammed  the  door,  and  went  up  stairs,  and  threw 
the  contents  of  his  water-jug  out  of  the  window,  —  very 
straight,  only  it  went'  over  the  wrong  man,  and  the 
whole  street  was  involved  in  confusion. 

"  A  joke's  a  joke ;  and  even  practical  jests  are  very 
capital  in  their  way,  if  you  can  only  get  the  other  party 
to  see  the  fun  of  them  :  but  the  population  of  our  street 
were  so  dull  of  apprehension  as  to  be  quite  lost  to  the 
drollery  of  this  proceeding ;  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  our  next-door  neighbor  was  obliged  to  tell  the 
single  gentleman,  that,  unless  he  gave  up  entertaining 


22  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OP 

his  friends  at  home,  he  really  must  be  compelled  to  part 
■with  him.  The  single  gentleman  received  the  remon- 
strance with  great  good-humor,  and  promised,  from  that 
time  forward,  to  spend  his  evenings  at  a  coffee-house,  — 
a  determination  which  afforded  general  and  unmixed 
satisfaction. 

"  The  next  night  passed  off  very  well ;  everybody 
was  delighted  with  the  change  :  but,  on  the  next,  the 
noises  were  renewed  with  greater  spirit  than  ever.  The 
sin<xle  gentleman's  friends,  being  unable  to  see  him  in  liis 
own  house  every  alternate  night,  had  come  to  the  de- 
termination of  seeing  him  home  every  night ;  and  what 
with  the  discordant  greeting  of  the  friends  at  parting, 
and  the  noise  created  by  the  single  gentleman  in  his 
passage  up  stairs,  and  his  subsequent  struggles  to  get 
his  boots  off,  the  evil  was  not  to  be  borne.  So  our  next- 
door  neighbor  gave  the  single  gentleman,  who  was  a 
very  good  lodger  in  other  respects,  notice  to  quit ;  and 
the  single  gentleman  went  away,  and  entertained  his 
friends  in  other  lodgings. 

"  The  next  applicant  for  the  vacant  first  floor  was  of 
a  very  different  character  from  the  troublesome  single 
gentleman  who  had  just  quitted  it.  He  was  a  tall,  thin 
young  gentleman,  with  a  profusion  of  brown  hair,  red- 
dish whiskers,  and  very  slightly  developed  mustachios. 
He  wore  a  braided  surtout,  with  frogs  behind,  light 
gray  trousers,  and  wash-leather  gloves,  and  had  alto- 
gether rather  a  military  appearance.     So   unlike  the 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  23 

roystering  single  gentleman !  Such  insinuating  man- 
ners, and  such  a  delightful  address !  So  seriously  dis- 
posed too  !  When  he  first  came  to  look  at  the  lodgings, 
he  inquired  most  particularly  whether  he  was  sure  to  be 
able  to  get  a  seat  in  the  parish  church ;  and,  when  he 
had  agreed  to  take  them,  he  requested  to  have  a  list  of 
the  different  local  charities,  as  he  intended  to  subscribe 
his  mite  to  the  most  deserving  among  them. 

"  Our  next-door  neighbor  was  perfectly  hapjiy.  He 
had  got  a  lodger  at  last  of  just  his  own  way  of  think- 
ing, —  a  serious,  well-disposed  man,  who  abhorred 
gayety,  and  loved  retirement.  He  took  down  the  bill 
with  a  light  heart,  and  pictured  in  imagination  a  long 
series  of  quiet  Sundays,  on  which  he  and  his  lodger 
would  exchange  mutual  civilities  and  Sunday  papers. 

"  The  serious  man'  arrived,  and  his  luggage  was  to 
arrive  from  the  country  next  morning.  He  borrowed 
a  clean  shirt  and  a  prayer-book  from  our  next-door 
neighbor,  and  retired  to  rest  at  an  early  hour,  requesting 
that  he  might  be  called  punctually  at  ten  o'clock  next 
morning,  —  not  before,  as  he  was  much  fatigued. 

"  He  was  called,  and  did  not  answer :  he  was  called 
again,  but  there  was  no  reply.  Our  next-door  neigh- 
bor became  alarmed,  and  burst  the  door  open.  The  se- 
rious man  had  left  the  house  mysteriously,  carrying  with 
him  the  shirt,  the  prayer-book,  a  tea-spoon,  and  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"  Whether  this  occurrence,  coupled  with  the  irregu- 


24  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OP 

larities  of  his  former  lodger,  gave  our  next-door  neigh- 
bor an  aversion  to  single  gentlemen,  we  know  not :  we 
only  know  that  the  next  bill  which  made  its  appearance 
in  the  parlor  window  intimated,  generally,  that  there 
were  furnished  apartments  to  let  on  the  first  floor.  The 
bill  was  soon  removed.  The  new  lodgers  at  first  at- 
tracted our  curiosity,  and  afterwards  excited  our  inter- 
est. 

"  They  were  a  young  lad  of  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and 
his  mother,  a  lady  of  about  fifty,  or  it  might  be  less.  The 
mother  wore  a  widow's  weeds,  and  the  boy  was  also 
clothed  in  deep  mourning.  They  were  poor,  very 
poor ;  for  their  only  means  of  support  arose  fi'om  the 
pittance  the  boy  earned  by  copying  writings,  and  trans- 
lating for  the  booksellers. 

"  They  had  removed  from  some  country  place,  and 
settled  in  London  ;  partly  because  it  afforded  better 
chances  of  employment  for  the  boy,  and  partly,  perhaps, 
with  the  natural  desire  to  leave  a  place  where  they  had 
been  in  better  circumstances,  and  where  their  poverty 
was  known.  They  were  proud  under  their  reverses, 
and  above  revealing  their  wants  and  privations  to  stran- 
gers. How  bitter  those  privations  Avere,  and  how  hard 
the  boy  worked  to  remove  them,  no  one  ever  knew  but 
themselves.  Night  after  night,  two,  three,  four  hours 
after  midnight,  could  we  hear  the  occasional  raking  of 
the  scanty  fire,  or  the  hollow  and  half-stifled  cough, 
which  indicated  his  being  still  at  work ;  and  day  after 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  25 

day  could  we  see  more  plainly  that  Nature  had  set  that 
unearthly  light  in  his  plaintive  face  which  is  the  beacon 
of  her  worst  disease.    . 

"  Actuated,  we  hope,  by  a  higher  feehng  than  mere 
curiosity,  we  contrived  to  establish  first  an  acquaint- 
ance, and  then  a  close  intimacy,  with  the  poor  stran- 
gers. Our  worst  fears  were  realized,  —  the  boy  was 
sinking  fast.  Through  a  part  of  the  winter,  and  the 
whole  of  the  following  sprmg  and  summer,  his  labors 
were  unceasingly  prolonged ;  and  the  mother  attempted 
to  procure  needle-work,  embroidery,  —  any  thing  for 
bread. 

"  A  few  shillings,  now  and  then,  were  all  she  could 
earn.  The  boy  worked  steadily  on  ;  dying  by  minutes, 
but  never  once  giving  utterance  to  complaint  or  mur- 
mur. 

"It  was  a  beautiful  autumn  evening  when  we  went 
to  pay  our  customary  visit  to  the  invalid.  His  little 
remaining  strength  had  been  decreasing  rapidly  for  two 
or  three  days  preceding ;  and  he  was  lying  on  the  sofa 
at  the  open  window,  gazing  at  the  setting  sun.  His 
mother  had  been  reading  the  Bible  to  him  ;  for  she 
closed  the  book  as  we  entered,  and  advanced  to  meet  us. 
'I  was  teUing  William,'  she  said,  '  that  we  must  man- 
age to  take  him  into  the  country  somewhere,  so  that  he 
may  get  well.  He  is  not  ill,  you  know ;  but  he  is  not 
very  strong,  and  has  exerted  himself  too  much  lately.' 
Poor  thing !     The  tears  that  streamed  through  her  fin- 


26  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

gers,  as  slie  turned  aside,  as  if  to  adjust  her  close  widow's 
cap,  too  plainly  showed  how  fruitless  was  the  attempt 
to  deceive  herself. 

""  The  boy  placed  one  hand  in  ours,  grasped  his  moth- 
er's arm  with  the  other,  drew  her  hastily  towards  him, 
and  fervently  kissed  her  cheek.  There  was  a  short 
pause.  He  sunk  back  upon  his  pillow,  and  looked  with 
jippalling  earnestness  in  his  mother's  face.  '  William, 
AVilliam  I '  said  the  terrified  parent,  '  don't  look  at  me 
so  —  speak  to  me,  dear!'  The  boy  smiled  languidly; 
but  an  instant  afterwards  his  features  resolved  into  the 
same  cold,  solemn  gaze. 

"  '  William,  dear  William ! '  said  the  distracted  moth- 
er, '  rouse  3^ourself,  dear :  don't  look  at  me  so,  love,  — 
pray  don't !  O  my  God !  what  shall  I  do  1  —  my  dear, 
dear  boy  !  —  he  is  dying  !  ' 

"■  The  boy  raised  himself  by  a  violent  effort,  and  folded 
his  hands  together :  '  Mother !  dear,  dear  mother  I 
bury  me  in  the  open  fields,  anywhere  but  in  these 
dreadful  streets.  I  should  like  to  be  where  you  can  see 
my  grave,  mother,  but  not  in  these  close,  crowded 
streets :  they  have  killed  me.  Kiss  me  again,  mother ; 
put  your  arm  round  my  neck '  — 

"  He  fell  back :  a  strange  expression  stole  ujion  his 
features ;  not  of  pain  or  suffering,  but  an  indescribable 
fixing  of  every  line  and  muscle,  —  the  boy  was  dead." 

The  following  sketch,  from  the  same  early  writings 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  27 

of  Mr.  Dickens,  cannot  surely  be  open  to  the  charge  of 
favoring  intemperance.  It  is  a  sad  comment  on  the  un- 
bridled appetite  of  the  drunkard.  It  warns  the  mod- 
erate drinker  to  beware  of  that  which  "  biteth  like  a 
serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder." 

"THE    DRUNKARD'S    DEATH. 

"We  will  be  bold  to  say,  that  there  is  scarcely  a 
man  in  the  constant  habit  of  walking,  day  after  day, 
through  any  of  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  London, 
who  cannot  recollect,  among  the  people  whom  he  '  knows 
by  sight,'  to  use  a  familiar  phrase,  some  being,  of  abject 
and  wretched  appearance,  whom  he  remembers  to  have 
seen  in  a  very  different  condition,  Vv'hom  he  has  observed 
sinking  lower  and  lower  by  almost  imperceptible  de- 
grees, and  the  sha,bbiness  and  utter  destitution  of  whose 
appearance  at  last  strike  forcibly  and  painfully  upon 
him  as  he  passes  by.  Is  there  any  man  who  has  mixed 
much  with  society,  or  whose  avocations  have  caused 
him  to  mingle,  at  one  time  or  other,  with  a  great  num- 
ber of  people,  who  cannot  call  to  mind  the  time  when 
some  shabby,  miserable  wretch,  in  rags  and  filth,  Avho 
shuffles  past  him  now  in  all  the  squalor  of  disease  and 
poveity,  was  a  respectable  tradesman,  or  a  clerk,  or 
a  man  following  some  thriving  pursuit,  with  good  pros- 
pects and  decent  means  ;  or  cannot  any  of  our  readers 
call  to  mind,  from  among  the  list  of  their  quondam  ac- 
quaintance, some  fallen  and  degraded  man,  who  lingers 


28  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OP 

about  llie  pavement  in  liungiy  misery :  from  whom 
every  one  turns  coldly  away,  and  who  preserves  him- 
self from  sheer  starvation,  nobody  knows  how  ?  Alas  ! 
such  cases  are  of  too  frequent  occurrence  to  be  rare 
items  in  any  man's  experience  ;  and  they  arise  from  one 
cause,  —  drunkenness,  that  fierce  rage  for  the  slow,  sure 
poison,  that  oversteps  every  other  consideration;  that 
casts  aside  wife,  children,  friends,  happiness,  and  sta- 
tion, and  hurries  its  victims  madly  on  to  degradation 
and  death. 

"  Some  of  these  men  have  been  impelled  by  misfor- 
tune and  misery  to  the  vice  that  has  degraded  them. 
The  ruin  of  worldly  expectations,  the  death  of  those 
they  loved,  the  sorrow  that  slowly  consumes  but  will 
not  break  the  heart,  has  driven  them  wild  ;  and  they 
present  the  hideous  spectacle  of  madmen,  slowly  dying 
by  their  own  hands.  But  by  far  the  greater  part  have 
wilfully,  and  with  open  eyes,  plunged  into  the  gulf  from 
which  the  man  who  once  enters  it  never  rises  more,  but 
into  which  he  sinks  deeper  and  deeper  down,  until  re- 
covery is  hopeless. 

"  Such  a  man  as  this  once  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his 
dying  wife,  while  his  children  knelt  around,  and  mingled 
low  bursts  of  grief  with  their  innocent  prayers.  The 
room  was  scantily  and  meanly  furnished  ;  and  it  needed 
but  a  glance  at  the  pale  form  from  which  the  light  of 
life  was  fast  passing  away,  to  know  that  grief  and  want 
and  anxious  care  had  been  busy  at  the  heart  for  many 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  29 

a  "weary  year.  An  elderly  female,  with  her  face  bathed 
in  tears,  was  supporting^  the  head  of  the  dying  woman 
—  her  daughter  —  on  her  arm.  But  it  was  not  towards 
her  that  the  wan  face  turned :  it  was  not  her  hand 
that  the  cold  and  trembling  fingers  clasped.  They 
pressed  the  husband's  arm:  the  eyes  so  soon  to  be 
closed  in  death  rested  on  his  face  ;  and  the  man  shook 
beneath  their  gaze.  His  dress  was  slovenly  and  disor- 
dered, his  face  inflamed,  his  eyes  bloodshot  and  heavy. 
He  had  been  summoned  from  some  wild  debauch  to  the 
bed  of  sorrow  and  death. 

"  A  shaded  lamp  by  the  bedside  cast  a  dim  light  on 
the  figures  around,  and  left  the  remainder  of  the  room 
in  thick,  deep  shadow.  The  silence  of  night  prevailed 
without  the  house,  and  the  stillness  of  death  was  in  the 
chamber.  A  watch  hung  over  the  mantle-shelf.  Its  low 
ticking  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  profound 
quiet :  but  it  was  a  solemn  one ;  for  well  they  knew, 
who  heard  it,  that  before  it  had  recorded  the  passing  of 
another  hour,  it  would  beat  the  knell  of  a  departed 
spirit. 

"It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  wait  and  watch  for  the 
approach  of  death ;  to  know  that  hope  is  gone,  and 
recovery  impossible  ;  and  to  sit  and  count  the  dreary 
hours  through  long,  long  nights,  —  such  nights  as  only 
watchers  by  the  bed  of  sickness  know.  It  chills  the 
blood  to  hear  the  dearest  secrets  of  the  heart,  the  pent- 
up,  hidden  secrets  of  many  years,  poui'ed  forth  by  the 


30  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

unconscious,  helpless  being  before  you ;  and  to  think 
how  little  the  reserve  and  cunning  of  a  whole  life  will 
avail  when  fever  and  delirium  tear  off  the  mask  at  last. 
Strange  tales  have  been  told  in  the  wanderings  of  dying- 
men, —  tales  so  full  of  guilt  and  crime,  that  those  who 
stood  by  the  sick  person's  couch  have  fled  in  horror  and 
affright,  lest  they  should  be  scared  to  madness  by  what 
they  heard  and  saw ;  and  many  a  wretch  has  died  alone, 
raving  of  deeds,  the  very  name  of  which  has  driven  the 
boldest  man  awa3^ 

"  But  no  such  ravings  were  to  be  heard  at  the  bed- 
side by  which  the  children  knelt.  Their  half-stifled 
sobs  and  moanings  alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  lonely 
chamber.  And  when  at  last  the  mother's  grasp  re- 
laxed ;  and,  turning  one  look  from  the  children  to  their 
father,  she  vainly  strove  to  speak,  and  fell  backward  on 
the  pillow,  all  was  so  calm  and  tranquil,  that  she  seemed 
to  sink  to  sleep.  They  leant  over  her :  they  called  upon 
her  name,  softly  at  first,  and  then  in  the  loud  and 
piercing  tones  of  desperation  ;  but  there  was  no  reply. 
They  listened  for  her  breath,  but  no  sound  came.  They 
felt  for  the  palpitation  of  the  heart,  but  no  faint  throb 
responded  to  the  touch.  That  heart  was  broken,  and 
she  was  dead. 

"  The  husband  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  and 
clasped  his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead.  He  gazed 
from  child  to  child  ;  but,  when  a  weeping  eye  metliis,  he 
quailed   beneath   its   look.     No  word   of  comfort   was 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  31 

whispered  in  his  ear,  no  look  of  kindness  lighted  on 
his  face.  All  shrunk  from  and  avoided  him  ;  and  when, 
at  last,  he  staggered  from  the  room,  no  one  sought  to 
follow  or  console  the  widower. 

"  The  time  had  been  when  many  a  friend  would  have 
crowded  round  him  in  his  affliction,  and  many  a  heart- 
felt condolence  would  have  met  him  in  his  grief. 
Where  were  they  now  ?  One  by  one,  friends,  relations, 
the  commonest  acquaintance  even,  had  fallen  off  from 
and  deserted  the  drunkard.  His  wife  alone  had  clung 
to  him  in  good  and  evil,  in  sickness  and  povert}^ ;  and 
how  had  he  rewarded  her?  He  had  reeled  from  the 
tavern  to  her  bedside  in  time  to  see  her  die. 

"  He  rushed  from  the  house,  and  walked  swiftly 
through  the  streets.  Remorse,  fear,  shame,  all  crowded 
on  his  mind.  Stupefied  with  drink,  and  bewildered 
with  the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed,  he  re-entered  the 
tavern  he  had  quitted  shortly  before.  Glass  succeeded 
glass.  His  blood  mounted,  and  his  brain  whirled  round. 
Death  !  Every  one  must  die,  and  why  not  she  ?  She 
was  too  good  for  him :  her  relations  had  often  told  him 
so.  Curses  on  them  I  Had  they  not  deserted  her,  and 
left  her  to  whine  away  the  time  at  home  ?  Well,  she 
was  dead,  and  happy  perhaps.  It  was  better  as  it  was. 
Another  glass,  —  one  more  !  Hurrah  !  It  was  a  merry 
life  wliile  it  lasted ;  and  he  would  make  the  most  of  it. 

"  Time  went  on.  The  three  cliildren  who  were  left  to 
him  grew  up,  and  were  children  no  longer :  the  father 


32  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 

remained  the  same,  —  poorer,  shabbier,  and  more  disso- 
hite-looking,  but  the  same  confirmed  and  irreclaimable 
drunkard.  The  boys  had,  long  ago,  run  wild  in  the 
streets,  and  left  him.  The  girl  alone  remained ;  but  she 
worked  hard,  and  words  or  blows  could  always  procure 
him  something  for  the  tavern.  So  he  went  on  in  the 
old  course,  and  a  merry  life  he  led. 

"  One  night,  as  early  as  ten  o'clock,  —  for  the  girl  had 
been  sick  for  many  da3's,  and  there  was,  consequently, 
little  to  spend  at  the  public  house,  —  he  bent  his  steps 
homewards,  bethinking  liimself,  that,  if  he  would  have 
her  able  to  earn  money,  it  would  be  as  well  to  apply  to 
the  parish  surgeon,  or,  at  all  events,  to  take  the  trouble 
of  inquiring  what  ailed  her,  which  he  had  not  yet 
thought  it  worth  wliile  to  do.  It  was  a  wet  December 
night :  the  wind  blew  piercing  cold,  and  the  rain  poured 
heavily  down.  He  begged  a  few  half-pence  from  a 
passer-by ;  and,  having  bought  a  small  loaf  (for  it  was 
his  interest  to  keep  the  girl  alive  if  he  could),  he 
shuffled  onwards  as  fast  as  the  wind  and  rain  would 
let  him.  At  the  back  of  Fleet  Street,  and  lying  between 
it  and  the  water-side,  are  several  mean  and  narrow 
courts,  which  form  a  portion  of  Whitefriars ;  and  it 
was  to  one  of  these  that  he  directed  his  steps. 

"  The  alley  into  which  he  turned  might,  for  filth  and 
misery,  have  competed  with  the  darkest  corner  of  this 
ancient  sanctuary  in  its  dirtiest  and  most  lawless  time. 
The  houses,  varying  from  two  stories  in  height  to  four, 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  33 

were  stained  with  every  indescribable  hue  that  long 
exposure  to  the  weather,  damp,  and  rottenness,  can 
impart  to  tenements  composed  originally  of  the  roughest 
and  coarsest  materials.  The  windows  were  patched 
with  paper,  and  stuffed  with  the  foulest  rags ;  the 
doors  were  falling  from  their  hinges  ;  poles,  with  lines 
on  which  to  dry  clothes,  projected  from  every  casement ; 
and  sounds  of  quarrelling  or  drunkenness  issued  from 
every  room. 

"  The  solitary  oil-lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  court  had 
been  blown  out,  either  by  the  violence  of  the  wind,  or 
the  act  of  some  inhabitant  who  had  excellent  reasons 
for  objecting  to  his  residence  being  rendered  too  con- 
spicuous ;  and  the  only  light  which  fell  upon  the  broken 
and  uneven  pavement  was  derived  from  the  miserable 
candles  that  here  and  there  twinkled  in  the  rooms  ol^ 
such  of  the  more  fortunate  residents  as  could  afford  to 
indulge  in  so  expensive  a  luxury.  A  gutter  ran  down 
the  centre  of  the  alley,  all  the  sluggish  odors  of  which 
had  been  called  forth  by  the  rain  ;  and,  as  the  wind 
whistled  through  the  old  houses,  the  doors  and  shutters 
creaked  upon  their  hinges,  and  the  windows  shook  in 
their  frames  with  a  violence  which  every  moment 
seemed  to  threaten  the  destruction  of  the  whole  place. 

"  The  man  whom  we  have  followed  into  this  den 
walked  on  in  the  darkness ;  sometimes  stumbling  into 
the  main  gutter,  and  at  others  into  some  branch  reposi- 
tories of  garbage  which  had  been  formed  by  the  rain, 


34  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

until  he  reached  the  hist  house  in  the  court.  The  door, 
or  rather  what  was  left  of  it,  stood  ajar  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  numerous  lodgers  ;  and  he  j)roceeded 
to  grope  his  way  up  the  old  and  broken  stair,  to  the 
attic  story. 

"•  He  Avas  within  a  step  or  two  of  his  room-door,  when 
it  opened ;  and  a  girl,  whose  miserable  and  emaciated 
appearance  was  only  to  be  equalled  by  that  of  the 
candle  which  she  shaded  with  her  hand,  peeped  anx- 
iously out. 

"  '  Is  that  you,  father  ?  '  said  the  girl. 

" '  Who  else  should  it  be  ? '  replied  the  man  gruffly. 
'  What  are  you  trembling  at  ?  It's  little  enough  that  I 
have  had  to  drink  to-day ;  for  there's  no  drink  without 
money,  and  no  money  without  work.  What  the  d — I's 
Ifhe  matter  with  the  girl  ?  ' 

'"I  am  not  well,  father  —  not  at  all  well,'  said  the 
girl,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  '  Ah  ! '  replied  the  man,  in  the  tone  of  a  person  who 
is  compelled  to  admit  a  very  unpleasant  fact,  to  wliich 
he  would  rather  remain  blind  if  he  could.  '  You  must 
get  better  somehow,  for  we  must  have  money.  You 
must  go  to  the  parish  doctor,  and  make  him  give  you 
some  medicine.  They're  paid  for  it,  d — n  'em.  What 
are  you  standing  before  the  door  for  ?  Let  me  come  in, 
can't  you  ? ' 

" '  Father,'  whispered  the  girl,  shutting  the  door  be- 
hind her,  and  placing  herself  before  it,  '  William  has 
come  back.' 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  35 

"  '  Who  ?  '  said  the  man,  with  a  start. 

"  '  Hush  ! '  replied  the  girl :  '  William,  Brother  Wil- 
liam.' 

"  '  And  what  does  he  want  ? '  said  the  man,  with  an 
effort  at  composure,  — '  money  ?  meat  ?  drink  ?  He's 
come  to  the  wrong  shop  for  that,  if  he  does.  Give  me 
the  candle ;  give  me  the  candle,  fool :  I  ain't  going  to 
hurt  him.'  He  snatched  the  candle  from  her  hand,  and 
walked  into  the  room. 

Sitting  on  an  old  box,  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  wretched  cinder-fire  that 
was  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  was  a  young  man  of 
about  two  and  twenty,  miserably  clad  in  an  old  coarse 
jacket  and  trousers.  He  started  up  when  his  father 
entered. 

"  '  Fasten  the  door,  Mary,'  said  the  young  man  hastily, 
—  'fasten  the  door.  You  look  as  if  you  didn't  know 
me,  father.  It's  long  enough  since  you  drove  me  from 
home  :  you  may  well  forget  me.' 

" '  And  what  do  you  want  here  now  ? '  said* the  father, 
seating  himself  on  a  stool,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place.    '  What  do  you  want  here  now  ?  ' 

"'Shelter,'  replied  the  son:  'I'm  in  trouble;  that's 
enough.  If  I'm  caught  I  shaU  swing;  that's  certain. 
Caught  I  shall  be,  unless  I  stop  here ;  that's  as  certain. 
And  there's  an  end  of  it.' 

"  '  You  mean  to  say  you  ve  been  robbing  or  murder- 
ing, then  ? '  said  the  father. 


36  LIFE  AND  "WRITINGS    OF 

"  Yes,  I  do,'  replied  the  son.  '  Does  it  surprise  you, 
father?  '  He  looked  steadily  in  the  man's  face  ;  but  he 
withdrew  his  eyes,  and  bent  them  on  the  ground. 

" '  Where's  your  brothers  ? '  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause. 

"  '  Where  they'll  never  trouble  you,'  replied  the  son  : 
'  John's  gone  to  America,  and  Henry's  dead.' 

"  '  Dead ! '  said  the  father,  with  a  shudder  which  even 
he  could  not  repress. 

"  '  Dead,'  replied  the  young  man.  '  He  died  in  my 
arms,  —  shot  like  a  dog,  by  a  gamekeeper.  He  staggered 
back:  I  caught  him,  and  his  blood  trickled  down  my 
hands.  It  poured  out  from  his  side  like  water.  He  was 
weak,  and  it  blinded  him ;  but  he  threw  himself  down 
on  his  knees,  on  the  grass,  and  prayed  to  God,  that,  if 
his  mother  was  in  heaven,  he  would  hear  her  prayers  for 
pardon  for  her  youngest  son.  "  I  was  her  favorite  boy. 
Will,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I  am  glad  to  think  now,  that  when 
she  was  dying,  though  I  was  a  very  young  child  then, 
and  my  little  heart  was  almost  bursting,  I  knelt  down  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  thanked  God  for  having  made 
me  so  fond  of  her  as  to  have  never  once  done  any  thing 
to  bring  the  tears  into  her  eyes.  O  Will !  why  was 
she  taken  away,  and  father  left  ?  "  There's  his  dying 
words,  father,'  said  the  young  man :  '  make  the  best 
you  can  of  'em.  You  struck  him  across  the  face,  in  a 
drunken  fit,  the  morning  we  ran  away ;  and  here's  the 
end  of  it 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  37 

"  The  girl  wept  aloud ;  and  the  father,  sinking  hi? 
]iead  upon  his  knees,  rocked  himself  to  and  fro. 

" '  If  I  am  taken,'  said  the  young  man,  '  I  shall  be 
carried  back  into  the  country,  and  hung  for  that  man's 
murder.  They  cannot  trace  me  here,  without  your 
assistance,  father.  For  aught  I  know,  you  may  give  me 
up  to  justice  ;  but,  unless  you  do,  here  I  stop  until  I  can 
venture  "to  escape  abroad.' 

"For  two  Avhole  days,  all  three  remained  in  the 
wretched  room,  without  st^irring  out.  On  the  third 
evening,  however,  the  girl  was  worse  than  she  had  been 
yet,  and  the  few  scraps  of  food  they  had  were  gone.  It 
was  indispensably  necessary  that  somebody  should  go 
out ;  and,  as  the  girl  was  too  weak  and  ill,  the  father 
went,  just  at  night-fall. 

"  He  got  some  medicine  for  the  girl,  and  a  trifle  in  the 
way  of  pecuniary  assistance.  On  his  way  back,  he 
earned  sixpence  by  holding  a  horse ;  and  he  turned 
homewards  with  enough  money  to  supply  their  most 
pressing  wants  for  two  or  three  days  to  come.  He  had 
to  pass  the  public-house.  He  lingered  for  an  instant, 
walked  past  it,  turned  back  again,  lingered  once  more, 
and  finally  slunk  in.  Two  men  whom  he  had  not  ob- 
served were  on  the  watch.  They  were  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  their  search  in  despair,  when  his  loitering 
attracted  their  attention  ;  and,  when  he  entered  the  pub- 
lic-house, they  followed  him. 

" '  You'll  drink  with  me,  master,'  said  one  of  them, 
proffering  him  a  glass  of  liquor. 


38  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  '  And  me  too,'  said  the  other,  replenishing  the  glass 
as  soon  as  it  was  drained  of  its  contents. 

"  The  man  thought  of  his  hungry  children,  and  his 
son's  danger.  But  they  were  nothing  to  the  drunkard. 
He  did  diink  ;  and  his  reason  left  him. 

" '  A  wet  night,  Warden,'  whispered  one  of  the  men 
in  his  ear,  as  he  at  length  turned  to  go  away,  after 
spending  in  liquor  one-half  of  the  money  on  which,  per- 
haps, his  daughter's  life  depended. 

"'The  right  sort  of  night  for  our  friends  in  hiding, 
Master  Warden,'  whispered  the  other. 

"  '  Sit  down  here,'  said  the  one  who  had  spoken  first, 
drawing  him  into  a  corner.  '  We  have  been  looking 
arter  the  young  'un.  We  came  to  tell  him  it's  all  right 
now ;  but  we  couldn't  find  him,  'cause  we  hadn't  got 
the  precise  direction.  But  that  ain't  strange  ;  for  I  don't 
think  he  know'd  it  himself  when  he  came  to  London, 
did  he  ? ' 

"  '  No,  he  didn't,'  replied  the  father. 

"  The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 

"  '  There's  a  vessel  down  at  the  docks,  to  sail  at  mid- 
night, when  it's  high  water,'  resumed  the  first  speaker ; 
'  and  we'll  put  him  on  board.  His  passage  is  taken  in 
another  name  ;  and,  what's  better  than  that,  it's  paid  for. 
It's  lucky  we  met  you.' 

"  '  Very,'  said  the  second. 

"  '  Capital  luck,'  said  the  first,  with  a  wink  to  his  com- 
panion. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  39 

"  '  Great,'  replied  the  second,  with  a  slight  nod  of  in- 
telligence. 

"  '  Another  glass  here  ;  quick,'  said  the  first  speaker. 
And,  in  five  minutes  more,  the  father  had  unconsciously 
yielded  up  his  own  son  into  the  hangman's  hands. 

"  Slowly  and  heavily  the  time  dragged  along,  as  the 
brother  and  sister,  in  their  miserable  hiding-place,  listened 
in  anxious  suspense  to  the  slightest  sound.  At  length, 
a  heavy  footstep  was  heard  upon  the  stair ;  it  approached 
nearer ;  it  reached  the  landing  ;  and  the  father  staggered 
into  the  room. 

"The  girl  saw  that  he  was  intoxicated,  and  advanced 
with  the  candle  in  her  hand  to  meet  him :  she  stopped 
short,  gave  a  loud  scream,  and  fell  senseless  on  the 
ground.  She  had  caught  sight  of  the  shadow  of  a  man, 
reflected  on  the  floor.  They  both  rushed  in  ;  and  in 
another  instant  the  young  man  was  a  prisoner,  and 
handcuffed. 

"  '  Very  quietly  done,'  said  one  of  the  men  to  his 
companion,  '  thanks  to  the  old  man.  Lift  up  the  girl, 
Tom.  Come,  come,  it's  no  use  crying,  young  woman. 
It's  all  over  now,  and  can't  be  helped.' 

"  The  young  man  stooped  for  an  instant  over  the  girl, 
and  then  turned  fiercely  round  upon  his  father,  who  had 
reeled  against  the  wall,  and  was  gazing  on  the  group 
with  drunken  stupidity. 

"  '  Listen  to  me,  father,'  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made 
the  drunkard's  flesh  creep.     'My  brother's  blood,  and 


40  LIFE  AND  -WRITINGS   OF 

mine,  is  on  your  head :  I  never  had  kind  look  or  word, 
or  care,  from  you;  and,  alive  or  dead,  I  never  will  for- 
give you.  Die  when  you  will,  or  how,  I  will  be  witli 
you.  I  speak  as  a  dead  man  now ;  and  I  warn  you,  fath- 
er, that  as  surely  as  you  must  one  day  stand  before  your 
]\Iaker,  so  surely  shall  your  children  be  there,  haud  in 
liand,  to  cry  for  judgment  against  you.'  He  raised  his 
manacled  hands  in  a  threatening  attitude,  fixed  his  eyes 
on  his  shrinking  parent,  and  slowly  left  the  room ;  and 
neither  father  nor  sister  ever  beheld  him  more,  on  this 
side  the  grave. 

"  When  the  dim  and  misty  light  of  a  winter's  morning 
penetrated  into  the  narrow  court,  and  struggled  through 
.  the  begrimed  window  of  the  wretched  room,  "Warden 
awoke  from  his  heavy  sleep,  and  found  himself  alone. 
He  rose,  and  looked  round  him.  The  old  flock  mattress 
on  the  floor  was  undisturbed  :  every  thing  was  just  as  he 
remembered  to  have  seen  it  last ;  and  there  were  no  signs 
of  any  one,  save  himself,  having  occupied  the  room  during 
the  night.  He  inquired  of  the  other  lodgers,  and  of  the 
neighbors  ;  but  his  daughter  had  not  been  seen  or  heard 
of.  He  rambled  through  the  streets,  and  scrutinized 
each  wretched  face  among  the  crowds  that  thronged 
them  with  anxious  eyes.  But  his  search  was  fruitless ; 
and  he  returned  to  his  garret  when  night  came  on,  des- 
olate and  weary. 

"  For  many  days,  he  occupied  himself  in   the  same 
manner ;  but  no  trace  of  his  daughter  did  he  meet  with, 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  41 

and  no  word  of  her  reached  his  ears.  At  length,  he  gave 
up  the  pursuit  as  hopeless.  He  had  long  thought  of  the 
probability  of  her  leaving  him,  and  endeavoring  to  gain 
her  bread  in  quiet  elsewhere.  She  had  left  him,  at  last, 
to  starve  alone.     He  ground  his  teeth,  and  cursed  her. 

"  He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  Every 
halfpenny  he  could  wring  from  the  pity  or  credulity  of 
those  to  whom  he  addressed  himself  was  spent  in  the 
old  way.  A  year  passed  over  his  head :  the  roof  of  a 
jail  was  the  only  one  that  had  sheltered  him  for  many 
months.  He  slept  under  archways  and  in  brick-fields, 
—  anywhere  where  there  was  some  warmth  or  shelter 
from  the  cold  and  rain.  But,  in  the  last  stage  of  pover- 
ty, disease,  and  houseless  want,  he  was  a  drunkard  still. 

"  At  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  a  door- 
step in  Piccadilly,  faint  and  ill.  The  premature  decay 
of  vice  and  profligacy  had  worn  him  to  the  bone.  His 
cheeks  were  hollow  and  livid ;  his  eyes  were  sunken,  and 
their  sight  was  dim.  His  legs  trembled  beneath  his 
weight,  and  a  cold  shiver  ran  through  every  limb. 

"  And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a  misspent  life 
crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him.  He  thought  of  the 
time  when  he  had  had  a  home,  —  a  happy,  cheerful  home 
—  and  of  those  who  peopled  it,  and  flocked  about  him 
then,  until  the  forms  of  his  elder  children  seemed  to 
rise  from  the  grave  and  stand  about  him,  —  so  plain,  so 
clear,  and  so  distinct  they  were,  that  he  could  touch 
and  feel  them.     Looks  that  he  had  long  forgotten  were 


42  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OP 

fixed  upon  him  once  more ;  voices  long  since  hushed  in 
death  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  music  of  village-bells. 
But  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  The  rain  loeat  heavil}'- 
upon  him ;  and  cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing  at  his 
heart  again. 

"  He  rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a  few  paces 
farther.  The  street  was  silent  and  empty  ;  the  few  pas- 
sengers who  passed  by  at  that  late  hour  hurried  quickl}' 
on,  and  his  tremulous  voice  was  lost  in  the  violence  of 
the  storm.  Again  that  heav'y  chill  struck  through  his 
frame;  and  his  blood  seemed  to  stagnate  beneath  it. 
He  coiled  himself  up  in  a  projecting  doorway,  and  tried 
to  sleep. 

"  But  sleep  had  fled  from  his  dull  and  glazed  eyes. 
His  mind  wandered  strangely,  but  he  was  awake  and  con- 
scious. The  well-known  shout  of  drunken  mirth  sound- 
ed in  his  ear,  the  glass  was  at  nis  lips,  the  board  was  cov- 
ered with  choice,  rich  food.  They  were  before  him  :  he 
could  see  them  all ;  he  had  but  to  reach  out  his  hand, 
and  take  them ;  and,  though  the  illusion  was  reality 
itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sitting  alone  in  the  deserted 
street,  watching  the  raiu-drops  as  tliey  pattered  on  the 
stones  ;  that  death  was  coming  upon  him  b}^  inches  ;  and 
that  there  were  none  to  care  for  or  help  him. 

"  Suddenly  he  started  up,  in  the  extremity  of  terror. 
IIo  had  heard  bis  own  voice  shouting  in  tlie  night  air, 
ho  knew  not  what,  or  why.  Hark !  A  groan !  An- 
other !     His  senses  were  leavin']r  him :  half-formed  and 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  43 

incoherent  words  burst  from  Ms  lips,  and  liis  hands 
sought  to  tear  and  lacerate  his  flesh.  He  was  going 
mad,  and  he  shrieked  for  help  till  his  voice  failed  him. 

"  He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  up  the  long,  dismal 
street.  He  recollected  that  outcasts  like  himself,  con- 
demned to  wander  day  and  night  in  those  dreadful 
streets,  had  sometimes  gone  distracted  with  their  own 
loneliness.  He  remembered  to  have  heard,  many  years 
before,  that  a  homeless  wretch  had  once  been  found  in 
a  solitary  corner,  sharpening  a  rusty  knife  to  plunge 
into  his  own  heart,  preferring  death  to  that  endless, 
weary  wandering  to  aud  fro.  In  an  instant,  his  resolve 
was  taken.  His  limbs  received  new  life  :  he  ran  quickly 
from  the  spot,  and  paused  not  for  breath  until  he 
reached  the  river-side. 

"  He  crept  softl/  down  the  steep  stone  stairs  that 
lead  from  the  commencement  of  Waterloo  Bridge  down 
to  the  water's  level.  He  crouched  into  a  corner,  and 
held  his  breath,  as  the  patrol  passed.  Never  did  prison- 
er's heart  throb  with  the  hope  of  liberty  and  life  half  to 
eagerly  as  did  that  of  the  wretched  man  at  the  prospect 
of  death.  The  watch  passed  close  to  him,  but  he  re- 
mained unobserved ;  and,  after  waiting  till  the  sound  oi 
footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  he  cautioush' 
descended,  and  stood  beneath  the  gloomy  arch  that 
forms  the  landing-place  from  the  river. 

"  The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his  feet. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  was  lulled,  and  all  was, 


44  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS   OP 

for  the  moment,  still  and  quiet,  —  so  quiet  that  the 
slightest  sound  on  the  opposite  bank,  even  the  rippling 
of  the  water  against  the  barges  that  were  moored  there, 
was  distinctly  audible  to  his  ear.  The  stream  stole  lan- 
guidly and  sluggishly  on.  Strange  and  fantastic  forms 
rose  to  the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to  approach ;  dark, 
gleaming  eyes  peered  from  the  water,  and  seemed  to 
mock  his  hesitation,  while  hollow  murmurs  from  behind 
urged  him  onwards.  He  retreated  a  few  paces,  took  a 
short  rmi,  a  desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

"  Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose  to  the 
water's  surface ;  but  what  a  change  had  taken  place,  in 
that  short  time,  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings  !  Life, 
life,  in  any  form,  —  poverty,  misery,  starvation,  any  thing 
but  death.  He  fought  and  struggled  with  the  water 
that  closed  over  his  head,  and  screamed  in  agonies  of  ter- 
ror. The  curse  of  his  own  son  rang  in  his  ears.  The 
shore,  but  one  foot  of  dry  ground,  —  he  could  almost 
touch  the  step.  One  hand's-breadth  nearer,  and  he  was 
saved ;  but  the  tide  bore  him  onward,  under  the  dark 
arches  of  the  bridge,  and  he  sank  to  the  bottom. 

"  Again  he  rose,  and  struggled  for  life.  For  one  in- 
stant)  —  for  one  brief  instant,  —  tlie  buildings  on  the  riv- 
er's banks,  the  lights  on  the  bridge  through  which  the 
current  had  borne  him,  the  black  water,  and  the  fast  fly- 
ing clouds,  were  distinctly  visible.  Once  more  he  sunk, 
and  once  again  he  rose.  Bright  flames  of  fire  shot  up 
from  earth  to  heaven,  and  reeled  before  liis  eyes,  while 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  45 

the  water  thundered  in  his  ears,  and  stunned  him  with 
its  furious  roar. 

"A  week  afterwards,  the  body  was  washed  ashore, 
some  miles  down  the  river,  a  swollen  and  disfigured 
mass.  Unrecognized  and  unpitied,  it  was  borne  to  the 
grave ;  and  there  it  has  long  since  mouldered  away." 


CHAPTER  III. 

CLIMBING    THE    LADDER. 

Willis's  Description  of  Dickens.  —  His  Inimitable  Humor.  —  Emerson's  Criticism.  — 
Iliigh  Miller's  Opinion.  —  London  Review. — Pickwick  Papers.  —  Sam  Weller's 
Valentine.  —  The  Ivy  Green.  —  Death  in  the  Prison. 

"  O  spirits  gay,  and  kindly  heart  I 
.     Precious  the  blessings  ye  impart  I  " 

Joanna  Baillie. 

"  A  merry  heart  doeth  good  like  a  medicine."  —  Prov.  xvli.  22. 

ILIGENCE  gains  its  reward.  Charles 
Dickens  was  not  weary  in  effort,  and  he 
believed  in  climbing  the  ladder  round  by 
round.  So  he  was  faithful  as  a  reporter 
till  he  found  himself  able  to  fiU  a  different, 
and,  as  far  as  regards  fame  and  pecuniary  reward,  an 
advanced  position.  Of  those  reportorial  days,  our  own 
N.  P.  Willis  wrote  once,  and  described  liis  first  meeting 
with  Charles  Dickens.  He  states  that  he  was  invited  by 
the  pul)lisher,  Macrone,  to  visit  Newgate ;  and  proceeds 
to  say :  — 

"  I  willingly  agreed,  never  having  seen  this  famous 
prison ;  and,  after  I  was  seated  in  the  cab,  he  said  that 

46 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  47 

he  was  to  pick  up  a  young  paragraphist  for  "  The  Morn- 
mg  Chronicle,"  who  wished  to  write  a  description  of  it. 
In  the  most  crowded  part  of  Holborn,  within  a  door 
or  two  of  the  Bull  and  Mouth  Inn  (the  great  starting 
and  stopping  place  of  the  stage-coaches),  we  pulled  up 
at  the  entrance  of  a  large  building  used  for  lawyers' 
chambers.  Not  to  leave  me  sitting  in  the  rain,  Macrone 
asked  me  to  dismount  with  him.  I  followed  by  a  long 
flight  of  stairs  to  an  upper  story,  and  was  ushered  into 
an  uncarpeted  and  bleak-looking  room,  with  a  deal  ta- 
ble, two  or  tliree  chairs,  a  few  books,  a  small  boy,  and 
Mr.  Dickens,  for  the  contents.  I  was  only  struck  at  first 
with  one  thing  (and  I  made  a  memorandum  of  it  that 
evening,  as  the  strongest  instance  I  had  ever  seen  of 
English  obsequiousness  to  employers),  —  the  degree  to 
which  the  poor  author  was  overpowered  with  the  honor 
of  his  publisher's  visit !  I  remember  saying  to  myself, 
as  I  sat  down  on  a  rickety  chair,  '  My  good  fellow,  if 
you  were  in  America,  with  that  fine  face  and  your  ready 
quill,  you  would  have  no  need  to  be  condescended  to 
by  a  publisher.'  Dickens  was  dressed  very  much  as  he 
has  since  described  Dick  Swiveller,  minus  the  swell 
look.  His  hair  was  cropped  close  to  his  head,  his 
clothes  scant,  though  jauntily  cut ;  and,  after  changing 
a  ragged  office-coat  for  a  shabby  blue,  he  stood  by  the 
door,  collarless  and  buttoned  up,  the  very  personifica- 
tion, I  thought,  of  a  close  sailer  to  the  wmd.  We  went 
down,  and  crowded  into  the  cab  (one  passenger  more 


48  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 

than  the  law  allowed) ;  and,  Dickens  partly  in  my  lap 
partly  in  Macrone's,  we  di'ove  on  to  Newgate.  In  his 
works,  if  you  remember,  there  is  a  description  of  the 
prison,  drawn  from  this  day's  observation.  We  were 
there  an  hour  or  two,  and  were  shown  some  of  the  cele- 
brated murderers,  confined  for  life,  and  one  young  sol- 
dier waiting  for  execution ;  and,  in  one  of  the  passages, 
we  chanced  to  meet  Mrs.  Fry  on  her  usual  errand  of 
benevolence.  Though  interested  in  Dickens's  face,  I 
forgot  him,  naturally  enough,  after  we  entered  the  pris- 
on ;  and  I  do  not  think  I  heard  him  speak  during  the  two 
hours.  I  parted  from  him  at  the  door  of  the  prison,  and 
continued  my  stroll  into  the  city.  Not  long  after  this, 
Macrone  sent  me  the  sheets  of  '  Sketches  by  Boz,'  with 
a  note  saying  that  they  were  by  the  gentleman  who 
went  with  us  to  Newgate.  I  read  the  book  with  amaze- 
ment at  the  genius  displayed  in  it,  and,  in  my  note  of 
reply,  assured  Macrone  that  I  thought  his  fortune  was 
made  as  a  pubhsher  if  he  could  monopolize  the  author. 

"  Two  or  three  years  afterwards,  I  was  in  London, 
and  was  present  at  the  comphmentary  dinner  given  to 
Macready.  Samuel  Lover,  who  sat  next  me,  pointed  out 
Dickens.  I  looked  up  and  down  the  table,  but  was  whol- 
ly unable  to  single  him  out,  without  getting  my  friend  to 
number  the  people  who  sat  above  him.  He  was  no  more 
like  the  same  man  I  had  seen  than  a  tree  in  June  is  like 
the  same  tree  in  February.  He  sat  leaning  his  head  on 
his  hand  while  Bulwer  was  speaking ;  and,  with  his  very 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  49 

long  hair,  his  very  flashy  waistcoat,  his  chains  and  rings, 
and  withal  a  paler  face  than  of  old,  he  was  totally  un- 
recognizable. The  comparison  was  very  interesting  to 
me,  and  I  looked  at  liim  a  long  time.  He  was  then 
in  the  culmination  of  popularity,  and  seemed  jaded  to 
stupefaction. 

"  Remembering  the  glorious  works  he  had  written 
since  I  had  seen  liim,  I  longed  to  pay  him  my  homage, 
but  had  no  opportunity ;  and  I  did  not  see  him  again  tdl 
he  came  over  to  reap  his  harvest  and  upset  his  hay-cart 
in  America.  When  all  the  ephemera  of  his  impru- 
dences and  improvidences  shall  have  passed  away, — 
say  twenty  years  hence,  —  I  should  like  to  see  him 
ao'ain,  renowned  as  he  will  be  for  the  most  oriQ-inal  and 
remarkable  works  of  his  time."  AVillis  referred  to  his 
first  visit  to  America,  which  Dickens  signalized  by  the 
publication  of  those  "  Notes  "  which  were  so  unaccept- 
able. When  the  great  novehst  again  trod  the  Amer- 
ican shore,  the  poet  who  thus  Avrote'of  him  had  gone  to 
the  spirit-land. 

It  has  been  difficult  sometimes  to  decide  in  regard  to 
the  humor  of  Dickens,  whether  it  was  the  chief  char- 
acteristic of  his  writings,  or  whether  it  was  exceeded 
by  his  pathos:  most  readers  seem  to  consider  them 
about  equal. 

Ralx^h  Waldo  Emerson  speaks  of  Dickens  as  a  writer 
"  with  preternatural  apprehension  of  the  language  of 
manners   and  the   varieties  of  street-life,  with   pathos 

4 


50  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OF 

and  laughter,  with  patriotic  and  still  enlarging  gener- 
osity." He  calls  him  "  a  painter  of  English  details,  like 
Hogarth;  local  and  temporary  in  his  tints  and  style, 
and  local  in  his  aims."  But,  notwithstanding  this  crit- 
icism, Emerson  enjoyed  Dickens,  and  the  reading  world 
accepted  him  as  a  novelist. 

Hugh  Miller  classed  Dickens  with  great  writers,  but 
at  the  lower  end  of  a  descending  scale.  The  great  geol- 
ogist went  to  yiew  the  place  where  Shakspeare  was 
born,  and  there  found  a  set  of  albums,  in  which  visitors 
placed  their  names.  Among  those  presented  to  his  no- 
tice were,  first  that  of  Walter  Scott,  and  then  that  of 
Charles  Dickens.  Mr.  Miller  wrote  of  the  matter :  "  It 
is  a  curious  coincidence,  —  SJiakspeare,  Scott,  Dickens  ! 
The  scale  is  a  descending  one ;  so  is  the  scale  from  tlie 
lion  to  the  leopard,  and  from  the  leopard  to  the  tiger-cat  : 
\mt  cat,  leopard,  and  lion  belong  to  one  great  family ; 
and  these  three  poets  belong  unequivocally  to  one  great 
family  also.  They  are  generically  one  ;  masters,  each  in 
his  own  sphere,  not  simpl}"  of  the  art  of  exhibiting  char- 
acter in  the  truth  of  nature,  —  for  that  a  Hume  or  a 
Tacitus  may  possess,  — but  of  the  rarer  and  more  diffi- 
cult dramatic  art  of  making  characters  exhibit  them- 
selves. It  is  not  uninstructive  to  remark  how  the 
peculiar  ability  of  portraying  character  in  this  form  is 
so  exactly  proportioned  to  the  general  intellectual  power 
of  tlic  writer  who  possesses  it.  .  .  .  Viewed  witli  ref- 
erence   to    this   simple   rule,  the    higher  characters  of 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  51 

Scott,  Dickens,  and  Sliakspeare  curiously  indicate  the 
intellectual  status  of  the  men  who  produced  them.  .  _.  . 
The  higher  characters  of  Dickens  do  not  stand  by  any 
means  so  high  [as  Scott's]  ;  the  fluid  in  the  original 
tube  rests  at  a  lower  level ;  and  no  one  seems  better 
aware  of  the  fact  than  Dickens  himself.  He  knows 
his  proper  walk ;  and,  content  with  expatiating  in  a 
comparatively  humble  province  of  human  life  and  char- 
acter, rarely  stands  on  tiptoe,  in  the  vain  attempt  to 
2)ortray  an  intellect  taller  than  his  own.  .  .  .  Dickens, 
ere  he  became  the  most  popular  of  living  English  au- 
thors, must  have  been  a  first-class  reporter;  and  the 
faculty  that  made  him  so  is  the  same  which  now  leads 
us  to  speak  of  him  in  the  same  breath  with  Sliakspeare. 
...  In  this  age  of  books,  I  marvel  no  bookseller  has 
ever  thought  of  presenting  the  public  with  the  Bow- 
street  reports  of  Dickens.  They  would  form,  assuredly, 
a  curious  work,  —  not  less  so,  though  on  a  different 
principle,  than  the  Parliamentary  reports  of  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson." 

Undoubtedly  Dickens  wrought  into  his  next  book 
some  of  his  experiences  and  observations  while  a  re- 
porter ;  and  he  gave  the  delighted  public  another  vol- 
ume, called  "  The  Pickwick  Papers."  It  is  said  that 
the  freshness  and  humor  of  the  "  Sketches  by  Boz," 
and  the  dramatic  power  indicated  by  the  "  Village 
Coquettes,"  a  comic  opera  which  Mr.  Dickens  wrote 
about  the  same  time,  attracted  the  attention  of  Messrs. 


52  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS  OF 

Chapman  and  Hall,  the  publishers,  who  applied  to 
"  Boz  "  for  a  serial  story  to  be  issued  in  monthly  parts. 
The  result  was  the  "  Posthumous  Memoirs  of  the  Pick- 
wick Club,"  with  illustrations  at  first  from  the  pencil  of 
Seymour,  and,  after  he  committed  suicide,  illustrations 
from  Hablot  K.  Browne,  —  "  Phiz." 

"  The  success  of  the  '  Pickwick  Papers  '  was  imme- 
diate and  great.  Its  wit,  pathos,  and  shrewd  picturing 
of  English  character,  high  and  low,  touched  the  heart 
and  fancy  of  all  classes.  The  sayings  of  Sam  Weller 
were  quoted  by  speakers  in  the  House  of  Parliament 
and  the  ragged  gamins  in  the  slums  of  London." 

"  The  London  Quarterly  Review,"  in  October,  1837, 
said  of  Mr.  Dickens,  "  The  popularity  of  this  writer  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  literary  phenomena  of  recent 
times  ;  for  it  has  been  fairly  earned,  without  resorting 
to  any  of  the  means  by  which  most  other  writers  have 
succeeded  in  attracting  the  attention  of  their  contem- 
poraries. He  has  flattered  no  popular  prejudice,  and 
[jrofited  by  no  passing  folly  ;  he  has  attempted  no  cari- 
cature of  the  manners  or  conversation  of  the  aristocracy ; 
and  there  are  very  few  political  or  personal  allusions  in 
his  works.  .  Moreover,  his  class  of  subjects  is  such  as  to 
expose  him,  at  the  outset,  to  the  fatal  objection  of  vul- 
garity; and,  with  the  exception  of  occasional  extracts 
in  the  newspapers,  he  received  little  or  no  assistance 
from  the  press.  And  yet,  in  less  than  six  months  from 
the  appearance  of  the  first  numbct  of  the  '  Pickwick 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  53 

Papers,'  the  whole  reading  public  was  talking  about 
them :  the  names  of  Winkle,  Wardle,  Weller,  Snod- 
grass,  Dodson,  and  Fogg,  had  become  familiar  in  our 
mouths  as  household  terms ;  and  jMr-  Dickens  was  the 
grand  object  of  interest  to  the  whole  tribe  of  '  Leo- 
hunters,'  male  and  female,  of  the  metropolis.  Nay, 
Pickwick  cliintzes  figured  in  linen-drapers'  windows, 
and  Weller  corduroys  in  breeches-makers'  advertise- 
ments ;  Boz  cabs  might  be  seen  rattling  through  the 
streets ;  and  the  portrait  of  the  author  of  '  Pelham '  or 
'  Crichton '  was  scraped  down  or  pasted  over,  to  make 
room  for  that  of  the  new  popular  favorite,  in  the  omni- 
buses. This  is  only  to  be  accounted  for  on  the  suppo- 
sition that  a  fresh  vein  of  humor  had  been  opened,  that 
a  new  and  decidedly  original  genius  had  sprung  up  ;  and 
the  most  cursory  reference  to  preceding  English  writers 
of  the  comic  order  will  show,  that,  in  his  own  peculiar 
walk,  Mr.  Dickens  is  not  simply  the  most  distinguished, 
but  the  first.", 

Mr.  Dickens  was  but  about  twenty-three  when  he 
was  asked  to  write  "  Pickwick ;  "  and  of  that  invitation 
he  thus  speaks  in  a  later  preface  to  that  humorous  vol- 
ume :  — 

"  Yv''hen  I  opened  my  door  in  FurnivaFs  Inn  to  the 
partner  who  represented  the  firm,  I  recognized  in  him 
the  person  from  whose  hands  I  had  bought,  two  or  three 
years  previously,  and  whom  I  had  never  seen  before  or 


54  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

since,  my  first  copy  of  the  magazine  in  Avliicli  my  first 
effusion  —  a  paper  in  the  '  Sketches,'  called  'Mr.  Minns 
AND  HIS  Cousin,'  dropped  stealthily  one  evening  at 
t\A-ilight,  with  fear  and  trembling,  into  a  dark  letter-box, 
in  a  dark  office,  up  a  dark  court  in  Fleet  Street  —  aj)- 
peared  in  all  the  glory  of  print ;  on  which  occasion  I 
walked  down  to  Westminster  Hall,  and  turned  into  it 
for  half-an-hour,  because  my  eyes  were  so  dimmed  with 
joy  and  pride  that  they  could  not  bear  the  street,  and 
Avere  not  fit  to  be  seen  there.  I  told  m}'  visitor  of  the 
coincidence,  which  we  both  hailed  as  a  good  omen,  and 
so  fell  to  business." 

The  high  moral  purpose  of  the  "  Pickwick  Papers  " 
can  be  seen  by  these  words  from  the  same  preface  :  — 

"  Who  knows,  but,  by  the  time  the  series  reaches  its 
conclusion,  it  may  be  discovered  that  there  are  even 
magistrates  in  town  and  country  who  should  be  taught 
to  shake  h^ands  every  day  with  Common-sense  and  Jus- 
tice ;  that  even  poor-laws  may  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 
the  aged,  and  unfortunate ;  that  schools,  on  the  broad 
principles  of  Christianity,  are  the  best  adornment  for 
the  length  and  breadth  of  this  civilized  land ;  that 
prison-doors  should  be  barred  on  the  outside  no  less 
heavily  and  carefully  than  they  are  barred  within  ;  that 
the  universal  diffusion  of  common  means  of  decency 
and  health  is  as  much  the  right  of  the  poorest  of  the 
poor  as  it  is  indispensable  to  the  safety  of  the  rich  and 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  55 

of  the  State  ;  that  a  few  petty  boards  and  bodies  —  less 
than  drops  in  the  great  ocean  of  humanity  which  roars 
around  them  —  are  not  forever  to  let  loose  fever  and 
consumption  on  God's  creatures  at  their  will,  or  always 
to  keep  their  jobbing  little  fiddles  going,  for  a  Dance  of 
Death." 

In  "  Pickwick  Papers  "  may  be  found  the  following 
song,  which  was  exceedingly  popular  in  its  day,  entitled 

"  THE  IVY  GREEN. 

"  Oh,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green, 

Tliat  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  1 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
%  A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings ; 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he. 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings. 

To  his  friend  the  huge  oak-tree  ! 
And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground. 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves.  « 

Creeping  where  grim  death  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 


66  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"Wliole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 
»  And  nations  have  scattered  been; 
But  the  stout  old  ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 
Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on,  where  time  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green." 

One  of  the  humorous  sketches  in  "  Pickwick"  is  that 
well-known  and  oft-quoted  description  of  Sam  Weller's 
valentine,  which  is  here  inserted. 

"  Mr.  Weller  having  obtained  leave  of  absence  from 
Mr.  Pickwick,  who  in  his  then  state  of  excitement  and 
worry  was  by  no  means  displeased  at  being  left  alone, 
set  forth,  long  before  the  appointed  hour,  and,  having 
plenty  of  time  at  his  disposal,  sauntered  down  as  far  as 
the  Mansion  House,  where  he  paused  and  contemplated, 
with  a  face  of  great  calmness  and  philosopliy,  the  nu- 
merous cads  and  drivers  of  short  stages  who  assemble 
near  that  famous  place  of  resort,  to  the  great  terror  and 
confusion  of  the  old-lady  population  of  these  realms. 
Havmg  loitered  here  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  Mr,  Weller 
turned,  and  began  wending  his  way  towards  Leadenhall 
Market,  through  a  variety  of  by-streets  and  courts. 
As  he  was  sauntering  away  his  spare  time,  and  stopped 
to  look  at  almost  every  object  that  met  his  gaze,  it  is  by 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  57 

no  means  surprising  that  Mr.  Weller  should  have  paused 
before  a  small  stationer's  and  print-seller's  window  ;  but, 
without  further  explanation,  it  does  appear  surprising 
that  his  eyes  should  have  no  sooner  rested  on  certain 
pictures. which  were  exposed  for  sale  therein,  than  he 
gave  a  sudden  start,  smote  his  right  leg  with  great  vehe- 
mence, and  exclaimed  with  energy,  '  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  this,  I  should  ha'  forgot  all  about  it  till  it  was  too 
late  ! ' 

"  The  particular  picture  on  which  Sam  Weller's  eyes 
were  fixed,  as  he  said  this,  was  a  highly-colored  repre- 
sentation of  a  couple  of  human  hearts  skewered  together 
with  an  arrow,  cooking  before  a  cheerful  fire,  while  a 
male  and  female  cannibal,  in  modern  attire,  —  the  gentle- 
man being  clad  in  a  blue  coat  and  white  trousers,  and 
the  lad}^  in  a  deep-red  pelisse  with  a  parasol  of  the  same, 
—  were  approaching  the  meal  with  hungry  eyes,  up  a 
serpentine  gravel-path  leading  thereunto.  A  decidedly 
indelicate  young  gentleman,  in  a  pair  of  wings  and 
nothing  else,  was  depicted  as  superintending  the  cook- 
ing ;  a  representation  of  the  spire  of  the  church  in  Lang- 
ham  Place,  London,  appeared  in  the  distance  ;  and  the 
whole  formed  a  '  valentine,'  of  which,  as  a  written  in- 
scription in  the  vvindow  testified,  there  was  a  large 
assortment  within,  which  the  shopkeeper  pledged  him- 
self to  dispose  of  to  his  countrymen  generally,  at  the 
reduced  rate  of  one-and-sixj)ence  each. 

"  '  I  should  ha'  forgot  it ;  I  should  certainly  ha'  for- 


5S  LIFE   AND    WRITINGS    OF 

got  it ! '  said  Sam :  so  saying,  he  at  once  stepped  into 
the  stationer's  shop,  and  requested  to  be  served  with 
a  sheet  of  the  best  gilt-edged  letter-paper,  and  a  hard- 
nibbed  pen  which  could  be  warranted  not  to  splutter. 
These  articles  ha\dng  been  promptly  sujDplied,  li^  walked 
on  direct  towards  Leadenhall  Market  at  a  good  round 
pace,  very  different  from  his  recent  lingering  one. 
Looldng  round  liim,  he  there  beheld  a  sign-board,  on 
which  the  painter's  art  had  delineated  something  re- 
motely resembling  a  cerulean  elephant  with  an  aquiline 
nose  in  lieu  of  a  trunk.  Rightly  conjecturing  that  this 
was  the  Blue  Boar  himself,  he  stepped  into  the  house, 
and  inquired  concerning  his  parent. 

" '  He  won't  be  here  this  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
or  more,'  said  the  young  lady  who  supermtended  the 
domestic  arrangements  of  the  Blue  Boar. 

"  '  Werry  good,  my  dear,'  replied  Sam.  '  Let  me 
have  nine-penn'orth  o'  brandy-and-water  luke,  and  the 
inkstand,  —  will  you,  miss  ?  ' 

"The  brandy-and-water  luke  and  the  inkstand 
having  been  carried  into  the  little  parlor,  and  the  young 
lady  having  carejully  flattened  down  the  coals  to  pre- 
vent their  blazing,  and  carried  away  the  poker  to  pre- 
clude the  possibility  of  the  fire  being  stirred  without 
the  full  privity  and  concurrence  of  the  Blue  Boar  being 
first  had  and  obtained,  Sam  Weller  sat  himself  down 
in  a  box  near  the  stove,  and  pulled  out  the  sheet  of 
gilt-edged  letter-paper  and  the  hard-nibbed  pen.     Then, 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  59 

looking  carefully  at  the  pen  to  see  that  there  were  no 
hairs  in  it,  and  dusting  down  the  table,  so  that  there 
might  be  no  crumbs  of  bread  under  the  paper,  Sam 
tucked  ujD  the  cuffs  of  his  coat,  squared  his  elbows,  and 
composed  himself  to  write. 

"  To  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  devoting  themselves  practically  to  the  science  of  pen- 
manship, writing  a  letter  is  no  very  easy  task ;  it  being 
always  considered  necessary  in  such  cases  for  the  writer 
to  recline  his  head  on  his  left  arm,  so  as  to  place  his  eyes 
as  nearly  as  possible  on  a  level  with  the  paper,  while 
glancing  sideways  at  the  letters  he  is  constructing,  to 
form  with  his  tongue  imaginary  characters  to  corre- 
spond. These  motions,  although  unquestionably  of  the 
greatest  assistance  to  original  composition,  retard,  in 
some  degree,  the  progress  of  the  writer  ;  and  Sam  had 
unconsciously  been  a  full  hour  and  a  half  writing  words 
in  small  text,  smearing  out  wrong  letters  with  his  little 
finger,  and  putting  in  new  ones  which  required  going 
over  very  often  to  render  them  visible  through  the  old 
blots,  when  he  was  roused  by  the  opening  of  the  door 
and  the  entrance  of  his  parent. 

"  '  Veil,  Sammy,'  said  the  father. 

" '  Veil,  my  Prooshan  Blue,'  responded  the  son,  lay- 
ing down  his  pen.  '  What's  the  last  bulletin  about  moth- 
er-in-law ?  ' 

" '  Mrs.  Veller  passed  a  wery  good  night,  but  is  un- 
common perwerse  and  unpleasant  this  mornin'.     Signed 


60  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

upon  oath,  S.  Veller,  Esquii-e,  Senior.  That's  the  last 
vun  as  wos  issued,  Samni}^,'  replied  j\Ir.  Weller,  mitying 
his  shawl. 

"  '  No  better  yet  ?  '  inquired  Sam. 

"  '  All  the  symptoms  aggerawated,'  rephed  Mr.  Wal- 
ler, shaldng  his  head.  '"But  wot's  that  you're  a  doin' 
of?    Pursuit  of  knowledge  under  difficulties,  Sammy  ?  ' 

" '  I've  done  now,'  said  Sam,  with  slight  embarrass- 
ment :  '  I've  been  a  writin'.' 

"  '  So  I  see,'  replied  Mr.  Weller.  '  Not  to  any  young 
'oman,  I  hope,  Sammy.' 

"  '  Why  it's  no  use  a  sayin'  it  ain't,'  replied  Sam.  '  It's 
a  walentine.' 

"  '  A  wot ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparentl}^  horror- 
stricken  by  the  word. 

"  '  A  walentine,'  repUed  Sam. 

"  '  Samivel,  Samivel,'  said  Mr.  Weller,  in  reproachful 
accents,  '  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it.  Ai"ter  the 
warnin'  you've  had  o'  your  father's  wicious  propensities  ; 
arter  all  I've  said  to  you  upon  this  here  wery  subject ; 
arter  actiwally  seein'  and  bein'  in  the  company  o'  your 
own  mother-in-law,  vich  I  should  ha'  thought  wos  a 
moral  lesson  as  no  man  could  never  ha'  forgotten  to  his 
dyin'  da}^  —  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it,  Sammy,  I 
didn't  think  you"d  ha'  done  it ! '  These  reflections  were 
too  much  for  the  good  old  man.  He  raised  Sam's  tum- 
bler to  his  lips,  and  drank  off  its  contents. 

"  '  Wot's  the  matter  now  ?  '  said  Sam. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  61 

"  '  Nev'r  mind,  Sammy,'  replied  Mr.  Weller.  '  It'll  be 
a  wery  agonizin'  trial  to  me  at  my  time  of  life  ;  but  I'm 
pretty  tough,  that's  vun  consolation,  as  the  wery  old 
turkey  remarked  wen  the  farmer  said  he  wos  afeerd  he 
should  be  obliged  to  kill  him  for  the  London  market.' 

"  '  Wot'll  be  a  trial  ?  '  inquired  Sam. 

"  '  To  see  you  married,  Sammy,  —  to  see  you  a  dilluded 
wictim,  and  thinldn'  in  your  innocence  that  it's  all  wery 
capital,'  replied  Mr.  Weller.  '  It's  a  dreadful  trial  to 
a  father's  feelin's,  that  'ere,  Sammy.' 

"  '  Nonsense,'  said  Sam.  '  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  get  mar- 
ried :  don't  you  fret  yourself  about  that.  I  know  you're 
a  judge  of  these  things.  Order  in  your  pipe,  and  I'll 
read  you  the  letter.     There  ! ' 

"  We  cannot  distinctly  say  whether  it  was  the  pros- 
pect of  the  pipe,  or  the  consolatory  reflection  that  a 
fatal  disposition  to  get  married  ran  in  the  family  and 
couldn't  be  helped,  which  calmed  Mr.  Weller's  feelings, 
and  caused  his  grief  to  subside.  We  should  be  rather 
disposed  to  say  that  the  result  Avas  attained  by  com- 
bining the  two  sources  of  consolation  ;  for  he  repeated 
the  second  in  a  low  tone,  very  frequently,  ringing  the 
bell,  meanwhile,  to  order  in  the  first.  He  then  divested 
himself  of  his  upper  coat ;  and  lighting  the  pipe,  and 
placing  liimself  in  front  of  the  fire  with  his  back  to- 
wards it,  so  that  he  could  feel  its  full  heat  and  recline 
against  the  mantle-piece  at  the  same  time,  turned  to- 
wards Sam,  and,  with  a  countenance  greatly  mollified 


62  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

by  the  softening  influence  of  tobacco,  requested  him  to 
'  fire  away.' 

"  Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink,  to  be  ready  for  any 
corrections,  and  began,  with  a  very  theatrical  air,  — 

"  '  "  Lovely -."  ' 

" '  Stop,'  said  ]\Ir.  Weller,  ringing  the  bell.  '  A 
double  glass  o'  the  inwariable,  my  dear.' 

u  i  Yevy  well,  sir,'  replied  the  girl,  who  with  great 
quickness  appeared,  vanished,  returned,  and  disap- 
peared. 

"  '  They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,'  observed  Sam. 

"'Yes,'  replied  his  father:  'I've  been  here  before  in 
my  time.     Go  on,  Sammy.' 

"  '  "  Lovely  creetur,"  '  repeated  Sam. 

"  '  'Tain't  in  poetry,  is  it  ?  '  interposed  his  father. 

"  '  No,  no,'  replied  Sam. 

"  '  Wery  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  Mr.  Weller.  '  Poetry's 
unnat'ral :  no  man  ever  talked  poetry  'cept  a  beadle  on 
boxin'  day,  or  Warren's  blackin',  or  Rowland's  oil,  or 
some  o'  them  low  fellows  ;  never  you  let  j^ourself  down 
to  talk  poetr}^  m}^  boy.     Begin  agin,  Sammy.' 

"  Mr.  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  a  critical  solemni- 
ty; and  Sam  once  more  commenced,  and  read  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  '  "  Lovely  creetur,  i  feel  myself  a  dammed  "  ' — 

"  '  Tliat  ain't  proj^er,'  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth. 

"  '  No :  it  ain't  "  dammed,"  '  observed  Sam,  holding 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  63 

the  letter  up  to  the  hght,  'it's  "shamed,"  —  there's  a 
blot  there,  —  "I  feel  myself  ashamed."' 

"  '  Wery  good,'  said  Mr.  Weller.     '  Go  on.' 

u  i  u  Peel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir  " —  I 
forget  what  this  here  word  is,'  said  Sam,  scratching  his 
head  with  the  pen,  in  vain  attempts  to  remember. 

" '  Why  don't  you  look  at  it,  then  ? '  inquii'ed  Mr. 
Weller. 

"  '  So  I  «m  a  looldn'  at  it,'  replied  Sam ;  '  but  there's 
another  blot.     Here's  a  "  c,"  and  a  "  i,"  and  a  "  d."  ' 

"  '  Circumwented,  p'haps,'  suggested  Mr.  Weller. 

"  '  No  :  it  ain't  that,'  said  Sam  :  '  "  circumscribed ;  " 
that's  it.' 

"  '  That  ain't  as  good  a  word  as  circumwented,  Sam- 
my,' said  Mr.  Weller  gravely. 

"  '  Think  not  ? '  said  Sam. 

"  '  Nothin'  like  it,'  replied  his  father. 

"  '  But  don't  you  think  it  means  more  ?  '  inquired  Sam. 

'"Veil,  p'raps  it  is  a  more  tenderer  word,'  said  Mr. 
Weller,  after  a  moment's  reflection.    '  Go  on,  Sammy.' 

" ' "  Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  circum- 
scribed in  a  dressin'  of  you ;  for  you  ai'e  a  nice  gal,  and 
nothin'  but  it.'" 

"  '  That's  a  wery  pretty  sentiment,'  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller,  removing  his  pipe  to  make  way  for  the  remark. 

" '  Yes,  I  think  it  is  rayther  good,'  observed  Sam, 
highly  flattered. 

" '  Wot  I  like  in  that  'ere  style  of  writin,"  '  said  the 


64  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OP 

elder  Mr.  Weller,  '  is,  tliat  there  ain't  no  callin'  names 
in  it,  —  no  Wenuses,  nor  nothin'  o'  that  kind.  Wot's 
the  good  o'  callin'  a  3'oung  'ooman  a  Wenus  or  a  angel, 
Sammy  ? ' 

"  '  Ah !  what,  indeed  ? '  replied  Sam. 

"  '  You  might  jist  as  well  call  her  a  griffin,  or  a  uni- 
corn, or  a  Idng's-arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  well 
known  to  be  a  collection  o'  fabulous  animals,'  added 
Mr.  Weller. 

"  '  Just  as  well,'  replied  Sam. 

"  '  Drive  on,  Samm}^,'  said  Mr.  Weller. 

"  Sam  complied  with  the  request,  and  proceeded  as 
follows ;  his  father  continuing  to  smoke,  with  a  mixed 
expression  of  wisdom  and  complacency  wliich  was  par- 
ticularly edifying. 

"  ' "  Afore  I  see  j^ou,  I  thought  all  women  was 
alike."  ' 

"'So  they  are,'  observed  the  elder  jMr.  Weller  paren- 
thetically. 

"  '  "  But  now," '  continued  Sam,  '  "  now  I  find  what  a 
reg'lar  soft-headed,  ink-red'lous  turnip  I  must  ha'  been ; 
for  there  ain't  nobody  like  you,  though  I  like  you  better 
than  nothin'  at  all."  I  thought  it  best  to  make  that 
rayther  strong,'  said  Sam,  looking  up. 

"  ]\Ir.  V/eller  nodded  ajoprovingiy,  and  Sam  resumed. 

"  '  "  So  I  take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear, 
— as  the  gen'l'm'n  in  difficulties  did,  ven  he  valked  out  of 
a  Sunday, — to  tell  you,  that,  the  first  and  only  time  I  see 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  65 

yoti,  your  likeness  was  took  on  my  hart  in  much  quicker 
time  and  brighter  colors  than  ever  a  likeness  was  took 
by  the  profeel  macheen  (wich  p'raps  you  may  have 
heercl  on,  Mary,  my  dear),  altho'  it  does  finish  a  portrait 
and  put  the  frame  and  glass  on  complete,  with  a  hook 
at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  by,  and  all  in  two  minutes  and 
a  quarter."  ' 

"  '  I  am  afeered  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Sammy,' 
said  Mr.  Weller  dubiously. 

"  '  No,  it  don't,'  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very  quickly, 
to  avoid  contesting  the  point,  — 

"  '  "  Except  of  me,  Mary,  my  dear,  as  your  walentine, 
and  think  over  what  I've  said.  My  dear  Mary,  I  will 
now  conclude."     That's  all,'  said  Sam. 

"  '  That's  rather  a  sudden  pull-up,  ain't  it,  Sammy  ? ' 
inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

"  '  Not  a  bit  on  it,'  said  Sam.  '  She'll  vish  there  wos 
more,  and  that's  the  great  art  o'  letter-writin.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  Mr.  Weller,  '  there's  somethin'  in  that ; 
and  I  wish  your  mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her 
conwersation  on  the  same  gen-teel  principle.  Ain't  you 
agoin'  to  sign  it  ?  ' 

"  '  That's  the  difficulty,'  said  Sam.  '  I  don't  know 
what  to  sign  it.' 

"  '  Sign  it  Veller,'  said  the  oldest  surviving  proprietor 
of  that  name. 

"  '  Won't  do,'  said  Sam.  '  Never  sign  a  walentine 
with  your  own  name.' 

0 


06  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  '  Sign  it  "  Piekvick,"  then,'  said  Mr.  Weller.  '  It's 
a  weiy  good  name,  and  a  easy  one  to  spell.' 

"  '  The  weiy  thing,'  said  Sam.  '  I  could  end  with  a 
werse  :  what  do  you  think  ?  ' 

"  '  I  don't  like  it,  Sam,'  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  '  I  never 
know'd  a  respectable  coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  'cept 
one,  as  made  an  affectin'  copy  o'  werses  the  night  afore 
he  wos  hung  for  highway  robbery ;  and  he  was  only  a 
Cambervell  man  :  so  even  that's  no  ride.' 

"  But  Sam  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  poetical 
idea  that  had  occurred  to  him  ;  so  he  signed  the  let- 
ter,— 

" '  Your  love-sick 
Pickwick.' 

And,  having  folded  it  in  a  very  intricate  manner, 
squeezed  a  doAvn-hill  direction  in  one  corner :  '  To 
Mary,  Housemaid,  at  ]\Ir.  Nupkins's  Mayor's,  Ipswich, 
Suffolk ; '  and  put  it  into  his  pocket,  wafered,  and  ready 
for  the  General  Post." 

Among  the  old  English  customs  which  modern  eyes 
look  upon  Avith  contempt  and  displeasure,  that  of  im- 
prisonment for  debt  is  one  of  the  worst.  In  "  Pick- 
wick," the  death  in  prison  of  one  confined  for  years  for 
debt  is  thus  toucliingl}^  described  :  — 

"  '  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  your  landlord's  wery  bad  to- 
night, sir,'  said  lloker,  setting  down  the  glass,  and  in- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  67 

specting  the  lining  of  his  hat  preparatory  to  putting  it 
on  again. 

"  '  What !  The  Chancery  prisoner ! '  exclaimed  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

"  '  He  won't  be  a  Chancery  prisoner  wery  long,  sir,' 
replied  Roker,  turning  his  hat  round,  so  as  to  get  the 
maker's  nanie  right-side  upwards,  as  he  looked  into  it. 

"  '  You  make  my  blood  run  cold,'  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 
'  What  do  3'ou  mean  ?  ' 

"  '  He's  been  consumptive  for  a  long  time  past,'  said 
Mr.  Roker,  '  and  he's  taken  wery  bad  in  the  breath  to- 
night. The  doctor  said,  six  months  ago,  that  nothing 
but  change  of  air  could  save  him.' 

"  '  Great  Heaven  ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Pickwick  :  '  has 
this  man  been  slowly  murdered  by  the  law  for  six 
months  ? ' 

"  '  I  don't  know  about  that,'  replied  Roker,  weighing 
the  hat  by  the  brims  in  both  hands.  '  I  suppose  he'd 
have  been  took  the  same,  wherever  he  w^as.  He  went 
into  the  infirmary  this  morning :  the  doctor  says  his 
strength  is  to  be  kept  up  as  much  as  possible  ;  and  the 
warden's  sent  him  wine  and  broth  and  that,  from  his 
own  house.     It's  not  the  warden's  fault,  you  know,  sir.' 

"  '  Of  course  not,'  replied  Mr.  Pickwick  hastily. 
"  '  I'm  afraid,  however,'  said  Roker,  shaking  his  head, 
'  that  it's  all  up  with  him.  I  offered  Neddy  two  six- 
penn'orths  to  one  upon  it  just  now ;  but  he  wouldn't 
take  it,  and  quite  right.  Thankee,  sir.  Good -night, 
sir.' 


68  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  '  Stay,'  said  Mr.  Pickwick  earnestly.  '  Where  is 
this  infirmary  ? ' 

"  '  Just  over  where  3'"ou  slept,  sir,'  replied  Roker.  '  I'll 
show  you,  if  you  like  to  come.'  ISIr.  Pickwick  snatched 
up  his  hat  without  speaking,  and  followed  at  once. 

"  The  turnkey  led  the  way  in  silence;  and,  gently  rais- 
ing the  latch  of  the  room-door,  raotioned  j\Ir.  Pickwick 
to  enter.  It  was  a  large,  bare,  desolate  room,  with  a 
number  of  stump  bedsteads  made  of  iron,  on  one  of 
wliich  lay  stretched  the  shadow  of  a  man,  —  wan,  pale, 
and  ghastly.  His  breathing  was  hard  and  thick,  and  he 
moaned  painfully  as  it  came  and  went.  At  the  bedside 
sat  a  short  old  man  in  a  cobbler's  apron,  who,  by  the  aid 
of  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  was  reading  from  the  Bible 
aloud.     It  was  the  fortunate  legatee. 

"  The  sick  man  laid  his  hand  upon  his  attendant's 
arm,  and  motioned  him  to  stop.  He  closed  the  book, 
and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 

"  '  Open  the  window,'  said  the  sick  man. 

"  He  did  so.  The  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  the 
rattle  of  wheels,  the  cries  of  men  and  boys,  all  the  busy 
sounds  of  a  mighty  multitude  instinct  with  life  and  occu- 
patioD,  blended  into  one  deep  murmur,  floated  into  the 
room.  Above  the  hoarse,  loud  hum,  arose,  from  time  to 
time,  a  boisterous  laugh ;  or  a  scrap  of  some  jingling 
song,  shouted  forth  by  one  of  the  giddy  crowd,  would 
strilvC  upon  the  ear  for  an  instant,  and  then  be  lost 
amidst  the  roar  of  voices  and  the  tramp  of  footsteps,  — 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  69 

the  brealdng  of  the  billows  of  the  restless  sea  of  life, 
that  rolled  heavily  on,  without.  Melancholy  sounds  to 
a  quiet  listener,  at  any  time  :  how  melancholy  to  tlie 
watcher  by  the  bed  of  death  ! 

"  '  There's"  no  air  here,'  said  the  sick  man  faintly. 
'  The  place  pollutes  it.  It  was  fresh  round  about,  when 
I  walked  there,  years  ago  ;  but  it  grows  hot  and  heavy 
in  passing  these  walls.     I  cannot  breathe  it.' 

"  '  We  have  breathed  it  together  for  a  long  time,'  said 
the  old  man.     '  Come,  come.' 

"  There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  the  two 
spectators  approached  the  bed.  The  sick  man  drew 
a  hand  of  his  old  fellow-prisoner  towards  him,  and, 
pressing  it  affectionately  between  his  own,  retained  it  in 
his  grasp. 

"  '  I  hope,'  he  gasped  after  a  Avhile,  —  so  faintly  that 
they  bent  their  ears  close  over  the  bed  to  catch  the  half- 
formed  sounds  his  pale  lips  gave  vent  to,  — '  I  hope  my 
merciful  Judge  will  bear  in  mind  my  hea\y  punishment 
on  earth.  Twenty  years,  my  friend,  twenty  years  in 
this  hideous  grave  !  Mj  heart  broke  when  my  child 
died,  and  I  could  not  even  kiss  him  in  his  little  coffin. 
My  loneliness  since  then,  in  all  this  noise  and  riot,  has 
been  very  dreadful.  IMay  God  forgive  me  !  He  has 
seen  my  solitary,  lingering  death.' 

"  He  folded  his  hands,  and,  murmuring  something 
more  they  could  not  hear,  fell  into  a  sleep,  —  only  a 
sleep  at  first,  for  they  saw  him  smile. 


70  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS. 

"  They  whispered  together  for  a  little  time  ;  and  the 
turnkey,  stooping  over  the  pillow,  drew  hastily  back. 
'  He  has  got  his  discharge  ! '  said  the  man. 

"  He  had,-^  &rtt  he  had  grown  so  like  death  in  life, 
»that<tKey  knew  not  when  he  died." 


CHAPTER    IV. 


FAMOUS. 


The  Novelist.  —  E.  P.  Whipple's   Testimony.  —  Oliver  Twist.  —  Asking  for  More.  — 
Pauperism  in  England.  —  Nancy  Bykes.  — Jew  Fagin. 

"  Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame  1 
A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 

Above  mortality."  Mrs.  Hemans. 

"  I  have  made  thee  a  groat  name,  like  unto  the  name  of  the  great  men  that  are  in 
the  earth."  —  2  Sam.  vii.  9. 


HE  brilliant  "  Pickwick  Papers  "  prepared 
the  way  for  yet  greater  success.  Leading 
London  publishers  made  proposals  at  once 
to  the  popular  author.  Pie  accepted  the 
editorship  of  Mr.  Bentley's  "  Miscellany," 
and  in  the  second  number  (February,  1837)  appeared 
the  hrst  instalment  of  "  Oliver  Twist."  This  l^edame  at 
once  a  favorite  story,  and  Mr.  Dickens  took  rank  at  once 
among  novelists.  "  Oliver  Twist  "  was  "  admirably  illus- 
trated by  George  Cruikshank,  and  is  still  regarded  as 
one  of  the  author's  most  striking  novels."  It  talked  in 
story  fashion  of  the  cruelties  and  abuses  that  prevailed 
too  largely  in  certain  pul)lic  institutions,  and  was  hap- 


72  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 

pily  instrumental  in  repealing  laws  that  sanctioned  gross 
injustice.  One  can  hardly  read  a  page  of  his  novels, 
without  perceiving  that  Mv.  Dickens  has  contended 
bravely  against  some  hidden  wrong  in  society ;  and  while 
adding  to  English  literature  many  gems,  and  a  host  of 
imperishable  creations,  has  at  the  same  time  rebuked 
wrong  fearlessly,  and  taught  the  lessons  of  humanity 
and  good  will. 

A  portion  of  the  manuscript  of  "  Oliver  Twist,"  which 
originally,  as  above  stated,  appeared  in  Bentley's  '.'  Mis- 
cellany," is  still  in  Mr.  Bentley's  possession.  "  The 
British  Museum  "  says  one,  "  might  fittingly  place  it  by 
the  side  of  the  manuscript  of  Sterne's  '  Sentimental  Jour- 
ney.' "  As  a  novelist,  our  own  brilliant  essayist,  E.  P. 
Whipple,  says  of  Mr.  Dickens,*  "  Dickens,  as  a  novelist 
and  prose  poet,  is  to  be  classed  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
noble  company  to  which  he  belongs.  He  has  revived 
the  novel  of  genuine  practical  life  as  it  existed  in  the 
works  of  Fielding,  Smollett,  and  Goldsmith,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  has  given  to  his  materials  an  individual  coloring 
and  expression  peculiarly  his  own.  His  characters,  like 
those  of  his  great  exemplars,  constitute  a  world  of  their 
owrj,  whose  truth  to  Nature  every  reader  instinctively 
recognizes  in  connection  with  their  truth  to  Dickens. 
Fielding  delineates  with  more  exquisite  art,  standing 
more  as  the  spectator  of  his  personages,  commenting  on 
their  actions  with  an  ironical  liumor  and  a  seeming  inno- 

*  North-American  Review,  Ixix.,  392,  393,  October,  1849. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  73 

cence  of  insight,  which  pierces  not  only  into  but  through 
their  very  nature,  laying  bare  their  most  unconscious 
scenes  of  action,  and  in  every  instance  indicating  that 
he  understands  them  better  than  they  understand  them- 
selves. It  is  this  perfection  of  knowledge  and  insight 
which  gives  to  his  novels  their  naturalness,  their  free- 
dom of  movement,  and  their  value  as  lessons  in  human 
nature,  as  well  as  consummate  representations  of  actual 
life.  Dickens's  eye  for  the  forms  of  things  is  as  accu- 
rate as  Fielding's,  and  his  range  of  vision  more  extended; 
but  he  does  not  probe  so  profoundly  into  the  heart  of 
what  he  sees,  and  he  is  more  led  away  from  the  sim- 
plicity of  truth  by  a  tricky  spirit  of  fantastic  exagger- 
ation. Mentally  he  is  indisputably  below  Fielding  ;  but 
in  tenderness,  in  pathos,  in  sweetness  and  purity  of  feel- 
ing, in  that  comprehensiveness  of  sympathy  which 
springs  from  a  sense  of  brotherhood  with  mankind,  he 
is  indisputably  above  him." 

Mr.  Dickens  gave  in  his  preface  to  "  Oliver  Twist," 
good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  the  choice  of  the  charac- 
ters there  represented,  in  the  following  words :  — 

"  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  a  lesson  of  the  x^urest  good 
may  not  be  drawn  from  the  vilest  evil.  I  have  always 
believed  this  to  be  a  recognized  and  established  truth, 
laid  down  by  the  greatest  men  the  world  has  ever  seen, 
constantly  acted  upon  by  the  best  and  wisest  natures, 


74  LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF 

and  confirmed  by  the  reason  and  experience  of  every 
thinking  mind. 

"  In  this  spirit,  when  I  wished  to  show,  in  little  Oliver, 
the  principle  of  good  surviving  through  every  adverse 
circumstance,  and  triumphing  at  last ;  and  when  I  consid- 
ered among  what  companions  I  could  try  him  best,  hav- 
ing regard  to  that  kind  of  men  into  whose  hands  he  would 
most  naturally  fall,  —  I  bethought  myself  of  those  who 
figure  in  these  volumes.  When  I  came  to  discuss  the 
subject  more  maturely  with  myself,  I  saw  many  strong 
reasons  for  pursuing  the  course  to  which  I  was  inclined. 
I  had  read  of  thieves  by  scores,  —  seductive  fellows  (ami- 
able for  the  most  part),  faultless  in  dress,  plump  in 
pocket,  choice  in  horse-flesh,  bold  in  bearing,  fortunate 
in  gallantry,  great  at  a  song,  a  bottle,  a  pack  of  cards,  or 
dice-box,  and  fit  companions  for  the  bravest.  But  I  had 
never  met  (except  in  Hogarth)  with  the  miserable 
reality.  It  appeared  to  me,  that  to  draw  a  knot  of  such 
associates  in  crime  as  really  do  exist ;  to  paint  them  in 
all  their  deformity,  in  all  then-  wretchedness,  in  all  the 
squalid  poverty  of  their  lives ;  to  show  them,  as  they 
really  are,  fore"ver  skulldng  uneasily  through  the  dirtiest 
paths  of  life,  with  the  great,  black,  ghastly  gallows 
closing  up  their  prospect,  turn  them  where  they  may,  — 
it  appeared  to  me  that  to  do  this  would  be  to  attempt 
a  something  which  was  greatly  needed,  and  which  would 
be  a  service  to  society.  And,  therefore,  I  did  it  as  I  best 
could." 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  75 

Oliver  Twist  commenced  life  in  a  workhouse.  The 
graphic  picture  drawn  by  jNIr.  Dickens  of  the  workhouses 
in  his  day  was  not  one  calculated  to  give  a  favorable 
impression  of  English  benevolence  or  justice.  "  Oliver 
asking  for  more  "  has  become  a  proverb.  The  manner 
in  which  the  fare  of  the  poor  boys  was  dealt  out  to 
them,  is  thus  described  :  — 

"  The  room  in  which  the  boys  were  fed  was  a  large 
stone  hall,  with  a  copper  at  one  end,  out  of  which  the 
the  master,  dressed  in  an  apron  for  the  purjiose,  and  as- 
sisted by  one  or  two  women,  ladled  the  gruel  at  meal- 
times. Of  this  festive  composition,  each  boy  had  one  por- 
ringer, and  no  more,  except  on  occasions  of  great  pub- 
lic rejoicing,  when  he  had  two  ounces  and  a  quarter  of 
bread  besides.  The  bowls  never  wanted  washing.  The 
boys  polished  them  with  their  spoons  till  they  shone 
again ;  and,  when  they  had  performed  this  operation 
(which  never  took  very  long,  the  spoons  bemg  nearly 
as  large  as  the  bowls),  they  Avould  sit  staring  at  the 
copper,  with  such  eager  eyes,  as  if  they  could  have  de- 
voured the  very  bricks  of  which  it  was  composed ;  em- 
ploying themselves,  meanwhile,  in  sucking  their  fingers 
most  assiduously,  with  a  view  of  catching  up  any  stray 
splashes  of  gruel  that  might  have  been  cast  thereon. 
Boys  have,  generally,  excellent  appetites.  Oliver  Twist 
and  his  companions  suffered  the  tortures  of  slow  starva- 
tion for  three  months  :  at  last,  they  got  so  voracious  and 


76  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OP 

wild  with  hunger,  that  one  boy,  who  was  tall  for  his  age, 
and  hadn't  been  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  (for  his  father 
had  kept  a  small  cook's  shop),  hinted  darkly  to  his  com- 
panions, that,  unless  he  had  another  basin  of  gruel  per 
diem,  he  was  afraid  he  might  some  night  happen  to  eat 
the  boy  Avho  slept  next  him,  who  happened  to  be  a 
weakly  youth  of  tender  age.  He  had  a  wild,  hungry 
eye  ;  and  they  implicitly  believed  him.  A  council  was 
held :  lots  were  cast  who  should  walk  up  to  the  master 
after  suj)per  that  evening,  and  ask  for  more ;  and  it 
fell  to  Oliver  Twist. 

"  The  evening  arrived :  the  boys  took  their  places.  The 
master,  in  his  cook's  uniform,  stationed  himself  at  the 
copper ;  his  pauper  assistants  ranged  themselves  behind 
him  ;  the  gruel  was  served  out ;  and  a  long  grace  was 
said  over  the  short  commons.  The  gruel  disappeared  : 
the  boys  whispered  each  other,  and  winked  at  Oliver, 
while  his  next  neighbors  nudged  him.  Child  as  he  was, 
he  was  desperate  with  hunger,  and  recldess  with  misery. 
He  rose  from  the  table ;  and  advancing  to  the  master, 
basin  and  spoon  in  hand,  said,  somewhat  alarmed  at  his 
own  temerity,  — 

"  '  Please,  sir,  I  want  some  more.' 

"  The  master  was  a  fat,  healthy  man  ;  but  he  turned 
very  pale.  He  gazed  in  stupefied  astonishment  on  the 
small  rebel  for  some  seconds,  and  then  clung  for  sup- 
port to  the  copper.  The  assistants  were  paralyzed  with 
wonder,  the  boys  with  fear. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  77 

"  '  What ! '  said  the  master  at  length,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  '  Please,  sir,'  replied  Oliver,  '  I  want  some  more.' 

"  The  master  aimed  a  blow  at  Oliver's  head  with  the 
ladle,  pinioned  him  in  his  arms,  and  shrieked  aloud  for 
the  beadle. 

"  The  board  was  sitting  in  solemn  conclave,  when  Mr. 
Bumble  rushed  into  the  room  in  great  excitement,  and, 
addressing  the  gentleman  in  the  high-chair,  said,  — 

"  '  jNIr,  Limbkins,  I  beg  joiu  pardon,  sir  !  Oliver  Twist 
has  asked  for  more  ! ' 

"  There  was  a  general  start.  Horror  was  depicted  on 
every  countenance. 

"  '  For  more  ! '  said  Mr.  Limbkins.  '  Compose  your- 
self, Bumble,  and  answer  me  distinctly.  Do  I  under- 
stand that  he  asked  for  more,  after  he  had  eaten  the 
supper  allotted  by  the  dietary  ?  ' 

"  '  He  did,  sir,'  replied  Bumble. 

"  '  That  boy  will  be  hung,'  said  the  gentleman  in  the 
white  waistcoat.    '  I  know  that  boy  will  be  hung.' 

"  Nobody  controverted  the  prophetic  gentleman's  opin- 
ion. An  animated  discussion  took  place.  Oliver  was 
ordered  into  instant  confinement ;  and  a  bill  was  next 
morning  pasted  on  the  outside  of  the  gate,  offering  a 
reward  of  five  pounds  to  anybody  who  would  take  Oli- 
ver Twist  oif  the  hands  of  the  parish.  In  other  words, 
five  pounds  and  Oliver  Twist  were  offered  to  any  man 
or  woman  who  wanted  an  apprentice  to  any  trade,  busi- 
ness, or  calhng." 


78  LIFE   AND   WKITINGS   OP 

The  pen  of  the  novelist  was  not  lacking  in  power 
wlien  he  portrayed  the  abject  wretchedness  of  some  of 
the  miserable  dwellers  in  crowded  haunts  of  poverty,  and 
showed,  with  a  noble  fearlessness,  the  heartless  treat- 
ment they  sometimes  received  from  those  whose  duty  it 
was  to  aid  them  to  the  extent  of  their  power,  or,  at  least, 
to  manifest  a  Christian  sympathy  for  them.  Here  is  an 
example  of  such  pen-pictures,  horrible  in  its  truthful- 
ness. Oliver  had  been  requested  by  his  employer,  the 
undertaker,  to  accompany  him :  — 

"  They  walked  on,  for  some  time,  through  the  most 
crowded  and  densely-inhabited  part  of  the  town  ;  and 
then,  strildng  down  a  narrow  street  more  dirty  and  mis- 
erable than  any  they  had  yet  passed  through,  paused  to 
look  for  the  house  which  v/as  the  object  of  their  search. 
The  houses  on  either  side  were  high  and  large,  but  very 
old,  and  tenanted  by  people  of  the  poorest  class,  as 
their  neglected  appearance  would  have  sufficiently  de- 
noted, without  the  concurrent  testimony  afforded  by 
the  squalid  looks  c)f  the  few  men  and  women,  who, 
with  folded  arms  and  bodies  half-doubled,  occasionally 
skulked  along.  A  great  many  of  the  tenements  had 
shop-fronts  ;  but  these  were  fast  closed,  and  mouldering 
away,  onl}^  the  upper  rooms  being  inhabited.  Some 
houses  which  liad  become  insecure  from  age  and  decay 
were  prevented  from  falHng  into  the  street  by  huge 
beams   of  wood   reared   against   the   walls,  and  firmly 


CHAELES   DICKENS.  79 

lilaiited  in  the  road  :  but  even  these  crazy  dens  seemed 
to  have  been  selected  as  the  nightly  haunts  of  some 
homeless  wretches ;  for  many  of  the  rough  boards,  wliich 
supplied  the  place  of  door  and  window,  were  wrenched 
from  their  positions  to  afford  an  aperture  wide  enough 
for  the  passage  of  a  human  body.  The  kennel  was  stag- 
nant and  filthy.  The  very  rats,  which  here  and  there  lay 
putrefying  hi  its  rottenness,  were  hideous  with  famine. 

"  There  was  neither  knocker  nor  bell-handle  at  the 
open  door  where  Oliver  and  his  master  stopped :  so, 
groping  his  way  cantiousl}^  through  the  dark  passage, 
and  bidding  Oliver  keep  close  to  him,  and  not  be  afraid, 
the  undertaker  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  first  flight  of 
stairs.  Stumbling  against  a  door  on  the  landing,  he 
rapped  at  it  with  his  knuckles. 

"  It  was  opened  by  a  young  girl  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen. The  undertaker  at  once  saw  enough  of  what  the 
room  contained  to  know  it  was  the  apartment  to  which 
he  had  been  directed.  He  stepped  in.  Oliver  followed 
him. 

"  There  was  no  fire  in  the  room ;  but  a  man  was 
crouching  mechanically  over  the  empty  stove.  An  old 
woman,  too,  had  drawn  a  low  stool  to  the  cold  hearth, 
and  was  sitting  beside  him.  There  were  some  ragged 
children  in  another  corner  ;  and  in  a  small  recess,  oppo- 
site the  door,  there  lay  upon  the  ground  something  cov- 
ered with  an  old  blanket.  Oliver  shuddered  as  he  cast 
his  eyes  towards  the  place,  and  crept  involuntarily  closer 


80  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OF 

to  his  master ;  for,  though  it  was  covered  np,  the  boy 
felt  that  it  was  a  corpse. 

"  The  man's  face  was  thin  and  very  pale  ;  his  hair  and 
beard  were  grizzly ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  The  old 
woman's  face  was  wrinkled ;  her  two  remaining  teeth  pro- 
Iruded  over  lier  underlip;  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and 
IDiercing.  Oliver  was  afraid  to  look  at  either  her  or  the 
man :  they  seemed  so  like  the  rats  he  had  seen  outside. 

"  '  Nobody  shall  go  near  her,'  said  the  man,  starting 
fiercely  up,  as  the  undertaker  approched.  '  Keep  back  ! 
d — n  you,  keep  back,  if  you've  a  life  to  lose  ! ' 

"  '  Nonsense,  my  good  man,'  said  the  undertaker,  who 
was  pretty  well  used  to  misery  in  all  its  shapes.  '  Non- 
sense ! ' 

" '  I  tell  you,'  said  the  man,  —  clincliing  his  hands, 
and  stamping  furiously  on  tlie  floor,  — '  I  tell  j'ou  I 
won't  have  her  put  into  the  ground.  She  couldn't  rest 
there.  The  worms  Avould  worry  her,  —  not  eat  her,  — 
she  is  so  worn  away.' 

"  The  undertaker  offered  no  reply  to  this  raving ; 
but,  producing  a  tape  from  his  pocket,  knelt  down  for  a 
moment  by  the  side  of  the  bod3\ 

"  '  Ah  ! '  said  the  man,  bursting  into  tears,  and  sink- 
ing on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  dead  woman : 
'  kneel  down,  kneel  down,  —  kneel  round  her,  every 
one  of  3^ou,  and  mailc  my  words  !  I  say  she  was  starved 
to  death.  I  never  knew  liow  bad  slie  was,  till  the  fever 
came   upon   her ;    and   then   her   bones    were   starting 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  81 

tlirough  the  skin.  There  was  neither  fire  nor  candle  : 
she  died  in  the  dark,  —  in  the  dark  !  She  couldn't  even 
see  her  children's  faces,  though  we  heard  her  gasping 
out  their  names.  I  begged  for  her  in  the  streets  ;  and 
they  sent  me  to  prison.  When  I  came  back,  she  was 
dying  ;  and  all  the  blood  in  my  heart  has  dried  up,  for 
they  starved  her  to  death.  I  swear  it  before  the  God 
that  saw  it !  They  starved  her ! '  He  twined  his  hands 
in  his  hair ;  and,  with  a  loud  scream,  rolled  grovelling 
upon  the  floor,  his  eyes  fixed,  and  the  foam  covering 
his  lips. 

"  The  terrified  children  cried  bitterly ;  but  the  old 
woman,  who  had  hitherto  remained  as  quiet  as  if  she 
had  been  wholly  deaf  to  all  that  passed,  menaced  them 
into  silence.  Having  unloosed  the  cravat  of  the  man, 
who  still  remained  extended  on  the  ground,  she  tottered 
towards  the  undertaker. 

" '  She  was  my  daughter,'  said  the  old  woman,  nod- 
ding her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  corpse,  and 
speaking  with  an  idiotic  leer,  more  ghastly  than  even 
the  presence  of  death  in  such  a  place.  '  Lord,  Lord  ! 
Well,  it  is  strange  that  I,  who  gave  birth  to  her,  and 
was  a  woman  then,  should  be  alive  and  merry  now,  and 
she  lying  there,  —  so  cold  and  stiff !  Lord,  Lord  !  to 
think  of  it :  it's  as  good  as  a  play, — as  good  as  a  jDlay  ! ' 

"As  the  wretched  creature  mumbled  and  chuckled  in 
her  hideous  merriment,  the  undertaker  turned  to  go 
away. 

6 


82  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  '  Stop,  stop  ! '  said  the  old  woman,  in  a  loud  whis- 
per. '  Will  she  be  buried  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  or 
to-niglit  ?  I  laid  her  out ;  and  I  must  walk,  you  know. 
Send  me  a  large  cloak,  —  a  good  warm  one  ;  for  it  is  bit- 
ter cold.  We  should  have  cake  and  wine,  too,  before 
we  go  !  Never  mind:  send  some  bread,  —  only  a  loaf 
of  bread,  and  a  cup  of  water.  Shall  we  have  some 
bread,  dear  ? '  she  said  eagerl}^  catcliing  at  the  under- 
taker's coat,  as  he  once  more  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  '  Yes,  yes,'  said  the  undertaker,  '  of  course.  Any 
thing  30U  like  ! '  He  disengaged  himself  from  the  old 
woman's  grasp,  and,  drawing  Oliver  after  him,  hurried 
away. 

"  The  next  day  (the  family  having  been  meanwhile 
relieved  with  a  half-quartern  loaf  and  a  piece  of  cheese, 
left  with  them  by  Mi\  Bumble  himself),  Oliver  and  his 
master  returned  to  the  miserable  abode  ;  where  ]\lr. 
Bumble  had  already  arrived,  accompanied  by  four  men 
from  the  workhouse,  who  were  to  act  as  bearers.  An 
old  black  cloak  had  been  thrown  over  the  rags  of  the 
old  woman  and  the  man  :  and  the  bare  cojSin,  having 
been  screwed  down,  was  hoisted  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
bearers,  and  carried  into  the  street. 

" '  Now,  you  must  put  your  best  leg  foremost,  old 
lady ! '  whispered  Sowerberry  in  the  old  woman's  ear : 
'  we  are  rather  late  ;  and  it  won't  do  to  keep  the  clerg}'- 
mau  waiting.    Move  on,  my  men,  as  quick  as  you  like ! ' 

"  Thus  directed,  the  bearers  trotted  on  under  their 


CHAELES    DICKENS.  83 

light  burden  ;  and  the  two  mourners  kept  as  near  them 
as  tliey  could.  Mr.  Bumble  and  Sowerberry  walked  at 
a  good  smart  pace  in  front ;  and  Oliver,  whose  legs  were 
not  so  long  as  his  master's,  ran  by  the  side. 

"  There  was  not  so  great  a  necessity  for  hurraing  as 
Mr.  Sowerberry  had  anticipated,  however :  for  when 
they  reached  the  obscure  corner  of  the  churchyard  in 
which  the  nettles  grew,  and  where  the  parish-graves 
were  made,  the  clergyman  had  not  arrived ;  and  tlie 
clerk,  who  was  sitting  by  the  vestry-room  fire,  seemed 
to  think  it  by  no  means  improbable  that  it  might  be  an 
hour  or  so  before  he  came.  So  the}^  put  the  bier  on 
the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  the  two  mourners  waited 
patiently  in  the  damp  clay,  with  a  cold  rain  drizzling 
down ;  while  the  ragged  boys,  whom  the  spectacle  had 
attracted  into  the  churchyard,  played  a  noisy  game  at 
hide-and-seek  among  the  tombstones,  or  varied  their 
amusements  by  jumping  backward  and  forward  over 
the  coffin.  Mr.  Sowerberry  and  Bumble,  being  per- 
sonal friends  of  the  clerk,  sat  by  the  fire  with  him,  and 
read  the  paper. 

"  At  length,  after  a  lapse  of  something  more  than  an 
hour,  Mr.  Bumble  and  Sowerberry  and  the  clerk  were 
seen  running  towards  the  grave.  Immediatel}^  after- 
ward the  clergyman  appeared,  putting  on  his  surplice 
as  he  came  along.  Mr.  Bumble  then  thrashed  a  boy  or 
two,  to  keep  up  appearances  ;  and  the  reverend  gentle- 
man, having  read  as  much  of  the  burial-service  as  could 


84  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OF     . 

be  compressed  into  four  minutes,  gave  liis  surplice  to  the 
clerk,  and  walked  away. 

"  '  Now,  Bill ! '  said  Sowerberry  to  the  grave-digger, 
'  fill  up  ! ' 

"  It  was  no  very  difficult  task ;  for  the  grave  was  so 
full  that  the  uppermost  coffin  was  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  surface.  The  grave-digger  shovelled  in  the  earth, 
stamped  it  loosely  down  with  his  feet,  shouldered  his 
spade,  and  walked  off,  followed  by  the  boj^s,  who  mur- 
mured very  loud  complaints  at  the  fun  being  over  so 
soon. 

"  '  Come,  my  good  fellow  ! '  said  Bumble,  tapping  the 
man  on  the  back.     '  They  want  to  shut  up  the  yard.' 

"  The  man,  who  had  never  once  moved  since  he  had 
taken  his  station  by  the  grave-side,  started,  raised  his 
head,  stared  at  the  person  who  had  addressed  him, 
walked  forward  for  a  few  paces,  and  fell  down  in  a 
swoon.  The  crazy  old  woman  was  too  much  occupied 
in  bewailing  the  loss  of  her  cloak  (which  the  undertaker 
had  taken  off)  to  pay  him  any  attention :  so  they  threw 
a  can  of  cold  water  over  him  ;  and,  when  he  came  to, 
saw  him  safel}^  out  of  the  churchyard,  locked  the  gate, 
and  departed  on  their  different  ways." 

At  the  present  day,  when  so  much  more  is  done  to 
reclaim  the  fallen  women  than  was  ever  done  before,  a 
rare  interest  attaches  to  the  chapter  in  "  Oliver  Twist" 
where  poor  lost  Nancy  converses  with  pure  Rose  May- 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  85 

lie.  Hood's  exquisitely  touching  poem,  "  The  Bridge 
of  Sighs,"  and  Miss  Phelps's  far  later  "  Hedged  In,"  are 
remembered  as  one  reads  the  words  of  Dickens,  written 
so  many  years  ago,  and  showing  a  Christian  sympathy 
with  the  outcast.  Read  the  description  of  the  interview 
between  the  two  young  women.     Poor  Nancy  !  — 

"  The  girl's  life  had  been  squandered  in  the  streets 
and  among  the  most  noisome  of  the  stews  and  dens  of 
London  :  but  there  was  something  of  the  woman's  ori- 
ginal nature  left  in  her  still ;  and  when  she  heard  a  light 
step  approaching  the  door  opposite  to  that  by  which  she 
had  entered,  and  thought  of  the  wide  contrast  which  the 
small  room  would  in  another  moment  contain,  she  felt 
burdened  with  the  sense  of  her  own  deep  shame,  and 
shrank  as  though  she  could  scarcely  bear  the  presence 
of  her  with  whom  she  had  sought  this  interview. 

"  But  struggling  with  these  better  feelings  was  pride, 
the  vice  of  the  lowest  and  most  debased  creature  no 
less  than  of  the  high  and  self-assured.  The  miserable 
companion  of  thieves  and  ruffians,  the  fallen  outcast  of 
low  haunts,  the  associate  of  the  scourings  of  the  jails 
and  hulks,  living  within  the  shadow  of  the  gallows  it- 
self, —  even  this  degraded  being  felt  too  proud  to  betray 
a  feeble  gleam  of  the  womanly  feeling  which  she  thought 
a  weakness,  but  which  alone  connected  her  with  that 
humanity  of  which  her  wasting  life  had  obliterated  so 
many,  many  traces  when  a  very  child. 


86  LlFli   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  She  raised  her  eyes  sufficiently  to  observe  that  the 
figure  which  presented  itself  was  that  of  a  slight  and 
beautiful  girl ;  and  then,  bending  them  on  the  ground, 
tossed  her  head  with  affected  carelessness,  as  she  said,  — 

"  '  It's  a  hard  matter  to  get  to  see  you,  lady.  If  I  had 
taken  offence,  and  gone  away,  as  many  would  have  done, 
you'd  have  been  sorry  for  it  one  day,  and  not  w^ithout 
reason,  either.' 

"  '  I  am  very  sorry  if  any  one  has  behaved  harshly  to 
you,'  replied  Rose.  '  Do  not  think  of  that.  Tell  me 
why  3^ou  wished  to  see  me.  I  am  the  person  jon  in- 
quired for.' 

"  The  kind  tone  of  this  answer,  the  sweet  voice, 
the  gentle  manner,  the  absence  of  any  accent  of  haugh- 
tiness or  displeasure,  took  the  girl  completely  by  sur- 
prise, and  she  burst  into  tears. 

" '  O  lady,  lady !  '  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  pas- 
sionately before  her  face  :  '  if  there  was  more  like  you, 
there  would  be  fewer  like  me  !  There  would,  —  there 
would ! ' 

"  '  Sit  down,'  said  Rose  earnestly  :  '  you  distress  me. 
If  you  are  in  poverty  or  affliction,  I  shall  be  truly  glad 
to  relieve  you  if  I  can.     I  shall  indeed.     Sit  down. ' 

" '  Let  me  stand,  lady,'  said  the  girl,  still  weeping ; 
"  and  do  not  speak  to  me  so  kindly  till  you  know  me 
better.     It  is  growing  late.     Is  —  is  —  that  door  shut  ?  ' 

" '  Yes,'  said  Rose,  recoiling  a  few  steps,  as  if  to  be 
nearer  assistance  in  case  she  should  require  it.     '  Why  ?  ' 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  87 

"  '  Because,'  said  the  girl,  '  I  am  about  to  put  my  life, 
and  the  lives  of  others,  in  your  hands.  I  am  the  girl 
that  dragged  little  Oliver  back  to  old  Fagin's  the  Jew's, 
on  the  night  when  he  went  out  from  the  house  in  Pen- 
tonville.' 

"  '  You ! '  said  Rose  Maylie. 

"  '  I,  lady  ! '  replied  the  girl.  '  I  am  the  infamous 
creature  you  have  heard  of,  that  lives  among  the  thieves, 
and  that  never,  from  the  first  moment  I  can  recollect  my 
eyes  and  senses  opening  on  London  streets,  have  knoAvn 
any  better  hfe,  or  kinder  words  than  they  have  given  me, 
—  so  help  me  God  !  Do  not  mind  shrinking  openly  from 
me,  lady.  I  am  younger  than  you  would  think,  to  look 
at  me  ;  but  I  am  well  used  to  it.  The  poorest  women  fall 
back,  as  I  make  my  way  along  the  crowded  pavement. 

"  '  What  dreadful  things  are  these  ! '  said  Rose,  invol- 
untarily falling  from  her  strange  companion. 

"  '  Thank  Heaven  upon  your  knees,  dear  lady,'  cried 
the  girl,  '  that:  you  had  friends  to  care  for  and  keep  you 
in  your  childhood,  and  that  j^ou  were  never  in  the  midst 
of  cold  and  hunger  and  riot  and  drunkenness,  and  — 
and  something  worse  than  all,  as  I  have  been  from  my 
cradle.  I  may  use  the  word  ;  for  the  alley  and  the  gut- 
ter were  mine,  as  they  will  be  my  deathbed.' 

" '  I  pity  you !  '  said  Rose  in  a  broken  voice.  '  It 
wrings  my  heart  to  hear -you !  ' 

"  '  Heaven  bless  you  for  your  goodness  ! '  rejoined  the 
girl.     '  If  you  knew  what  I  am  sometim-es,  you  would 


88  LIFE   AND   WHITINGS   OF 

pity  me  indeed.  But  I  have  stolen  away  from  those 
who  woukl  surely  murder  me  if  they  loiew  I  had  been 
here  to  tell  you  what  I  have  overheard.  Do  you  know 
a  man  named  Monks  ?  ' 

"  '  No,'  said  Rose. 

"  '  He  knows  you,'  repUed  the  girl,  '  and  knew  you 
were  here  ;  for  it  was  by  hearing  him  tell  the  place  that 
I  found  you  out.' 

"  '  I  never  heard  the  name,"  said  Rose. 

"  '  Then  he  goes  by  some  other  amongst  us,'  rejoined 
the  girl ;  '  which  I  more  than  thought  before.  Some  time 
ago,  and  soon  after  Oliver  was  put  into  your  house  on 
the  night  of  the  robbery,  I  —  suspecting  this  man  — 
listened  to  a  conversation  held  between  him  and  Fagin 
in  the  dark.  I  found  out,  from  what  I  heard,  that 
Monks  —  the  man  I  asked  you  about,  you  know  "  — 

" '  Yes,'  said  Rose,  '  I  understand.' 

"  — '  That  Monks,'  pursued  the  girl,  '  had  seen  him 
accidentally  with  two  of  our  boys  on  the  day  we  first 
lost  him,  and  had  known  him  directly  to  be  the  same 
child  that  he  was  watching  for,  though  I  couldn't  make 
out  why.  A  bargain  was  struck  with  Fagin,  that,  if 
Oliver  was  got  back,  he  should  have  a  certain  sum  ;  and 
he  was  to  have  more  for  making  him  a  thief,  which  this 
Monks  wanted  for  some  purpose  of  his  own.' 

"  '  For  what  purpose  ? '  asked  Rose. 

" '  He  caught  sight  of  my  shadow  on  the  wall  as  I 
listened,  in  the  hope  of  finding  out,'  said  the  girl ;  '  and 


CHARLES    DICKENS,  89 

there  are  not  many  people  besides  me  that  could  have 
got  out  of  then-  way  in  time  to  escape  discovery.  But 
I  did ;  and  I  saw  him  no  more  till  last  night.' 

" '  And  what  occurred  then  ?  ' 

" '  I'll  tell  you,  lady.  Last  night  he  came  again. 
Again  they  went  up  stairs  ;  and  I,  wrapping  myself  up 
so  that  my  shadow  should  not  betray  me,  again  listened 
at  the  door.  The  first  words  I  heard  Monks  say  were 
these  :  '  So  the  only  proofs  of  the  boy's  identity  lie  at 
the  bottom  of  the  river,  and  the  old  hag  that  re- 
ceived them  from  the  mother  is  rotting  in  her  coffin.' 
They  laughed,  and  talked  of  his  success  in  doing 
this :  and  Monks,  talking  on  about  the  boy,  and 
getting  very  wild,  said,  that,  though  he  had  got  the 
young  devil's  money  safely  now,  lie'd  rather  have  had  it 
the  other  way  ;  for  what  a  game  it  would  have  been  to 
have  brought  down  the  boast  of  the  father's  will,  by 
driving  him  through  every  jail  in  town,  and  then  haul- 
ing him  up  for  some  capital  felonj^,  which  Fagin  could 
easily  manage,  after  having  made  a  good  profit  of  him 
besides.' 

'"What  is  all  this?  '  said  Rose. 

" '  The  truth,  lady,  though  it  comes  from  my  lips,' 
replied  the  girl.  '  Then  he  said,  with  oaths  common 
enough  in  my  ears,  but  strange  to  yours,  that,  if  he  could 
gratify  his  hatred  by  taking  the  boy's  life  without  bring- 
ing his  own  neck  in  danger,  he  would  :  but,  as  he  couldn't, 
he'd  be  upon  the  watch  to  meet  him  at  every  turn  in 


90  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

life  ;  and,  i-f  he  took  advantage  of  his  birth  and  history, 
he  might  harm  liim  yet.  '  In  short,  Fagin,'  he  says, 
'  Jew  as  you  are,  you  never  laid  such  snares  as  I'll  con- 
trive for  my  young  brother  OKver.' 

" '  His  brother  ! '  exclaimed  Rose. 

" '  Those  were  his  words,'  said  Nancy,  glancing  un- 
easily round,  as  she  had  scarcely  ceased  to  do  since  she 
began  to  speak  ;  for  a  vision  of  Sykes  haunted  her  per- 
petually. '  And  more.  When  he  spoke  of  you  and  the 
other  lady,  and  said  it  seemed  contrived  by  Heaven,  or 
the  Devil,  against  him,  that  Oliver  should  come  into 
your  hands,  he  laughed,  and  said  there  was  some  com- 
fort in  that  too  ;  for  how  many  thousands  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  pounds  would  j'OU  not  give,  if  you  had 
them,  to  know  who  your  two-legged  spaniel  was ! ' 

"  '  You  do  not  mean,'  said  Rose,  turning  very  pale, 
'  to  tell  me  that  this  was  said  in  earnest  ? ' 

"  '  He  spoke  in  hard  and  angry  earnest,  if  a  man  ever 
did,'  replied  the  girl,  shaking  her  head.  '  He  is  an  ear- 
nest man  when  his  hatred  is  up.  I  know  many  who  do 
worse  things  ;  but  I'd  rather  listen  to  them  all  a  dozen 
times  than  to  that  Monks  once.  It  is  growing  late,  and 
I  have  to  reach  home  without  suspicion  of  having  been 
on  such  an  errand  as  this.     I  must  get  back  quickly.' 

"  '  But  what  can  I  do  ?'  said  Rose.  '  To  what  use  can 
I  turn  this  communication  Avithout  j'ou  ?  Back !  Why 
do  you  wish  to  return  to  companions  you  paint  in  such 
terrible  colors  ?     If  j'ou  repeat  this  information  to  a 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  91 

gentleman  whom  I  can  summon  in  an  instant  from  the 
next  room,  you  can  be  consigned  to  some  place  of  safety 
without  half  an  hour's  delay.' 

"  '  I  wish  to  go  back,'  said  the  girl.  '  I  must  go  back, 
because  —  how  can  I  tell  such  things  to  an  innocent 
ladylike  you? — because,  among  the  men  I  have  told 
you  of,  there  is  one  —  the  most  desperate  among  them 
all — that  I  can't  leave  ;  no,  not  even  to  be  saved  from 
the  life  I  am  leading  now.' 

"  '  Your  having  interfered  in  this  dear  boy's  behalf  be- 
fore,' said  Rose  ;  '  your  coming  here,  at  so  great  a  risk, 
to  tell  me  what  you  have  heard ;  your  manner,  which 
convinces  me  of  the  truth  of  what  you  say ;  your  evi- 
dent contrition,  and  sense  of  shame,  —  all  lead  me  to  be- 
lieve that  you  might  be  yet  reclaimed.  Oh  ! '  said  the 
earnest  girl,  folding  her  hands  as  the  tears  coursed  down 
her  face, '  do  not  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  entreaties  of  one 
of  your  own  sex,  the  first  —  the  first,  I  do  believe  —  who 
ever  appealed  to  you  in  the  voice  of  pity  and  compas- 
sion. Do  hear  my  words,  and  let  me  save  you  yet  for 
better  things  ! ' 

"  '  Lady,'  cried  the  girl,  sinking  on  her  knees,  '  dear, 
sweet,  angel  lady,  you  are  the  first  that  ever  blessed  me 
with  such  words  as  these  ;  and,  if  I  had  heard  them 
years  ago,  they  might  have  turned  me  from  a  life  of  sin 
and  sorrow  ;  but  it  is  too  late,  —  it  is  too  late  ! ' 

"  '  It  is  never  too  late,'  said  Rose,  '  for  penitence  and 
atonement.' 


92  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

" '  It  is,'  cried  the  girl,  writhing  in  the  agony  of  her 
mind :  '  I  cannot  leave  him  now !  I  could  not  be  his 
death.' 

"  '  Why  should  you  be  ?  '  asked  Rose. 

"  '  Nothing  could  save  him,'  cried  the  girl.  '  If  I  told 
others  what  I  have  told  you,  and  led  to  their  being 
taken,  he  would  be  sure  to  die.  He  is  the  boldest,  and 
has  been  so  cruel.' 

"  '  Is  it  possible,"  cried  Rose,  '  that,  for  such  a  man  as 
this,  you  can  resign  every  future  hope,  and  the  certainty 
of  immediate  rescue  ?     It  is  madness.' 

" '  I  don't  know  what  it  is,'  answered  the  girl :  '  I 
only  know  that  it  is  so  ;  and  not  with  me  alone,  but 
with  hundreds  of  others,  as  bad  and  wretched  as  myself. 
I  must  go  back.  Whether  it  is  God's  wrath  for  the 
wrong  I  have  done,  I  do  not  know:  but  I  am  drawn 
back  to  him  through  every  suffering  and  ill-usage  ;  and 
should  be,  I  believe,  if  I  laiew  that  I  was  to  die  by  his 
hand  at  last.' 

"  '  AVhat  am  I  to  do  ?  '  said  Rose.  '  I  should  not  let 
you  depart  from  me  thus.' 

" '  You  should,  lady,  and  I  know  you  will,'  rejoined 
the  girl,  rising.  '  You  will  not  stop  my  going,  because  I 
have  trusted  in  your  goodness,  and  forced  no  promise 
from  you,  as  I  might  have  done.' 

"  '  Of  what  use,  then,  is  the  communication  you  have 
made  ?'  said  Rose.  '  This  mystery  must  be  investigated, 
or  how  will  its  disclosure  to  me  benefit  Oliver,  whom 
you  are  anxious  to  serve  ? ' 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  93 

"  '  You  must  have  some  kind  gentleman  about  you 
that  will  hear  it  as  a  secret,  and  advise  you  what  to  do,' 
rejoined  the  girl. 

" '  But  where  can  I  find  you  again,  when  it  is  neces- 
sary ? '  asked  Rose.  '  I  do  not  seek  to  know  where 
these  dreadful  people  live ;  but  where  will  you  be  walk- 
ing, or  passing,  at  any  settled  period  from  this  time  ?  ' 

"  '  Will  you  promise  me  that  you  will  have  my  secret 
strictly  kept,  and  come  alone,  or  with  the  only  other 
person  that  knows  it,  and  that  I  shall  not  be  watched 
or  followed  ?  '  asked  the  girl. 

"  '  I  promise  you  solemnly,'  answered  Rose. 

" '  Every  Sunday  night,  from  eleven  until  the  clock 
strikes  twelve,'  said  the  gui,  without  hesitation,  '  I  will 
walk  on  London  Bridge,  if  I  am  filive.' 

"  '  Stay  another  moment,'  interposed  Rose,  as  the  girl 
moved  hurriedly  towards  the  door.  '  Think  once  again 
on  your  own  condition,  and  the  opportunity  you  have  of 
escaping  from  it.  You  have  a  claim  on  me,  not  only 
as  the  voluntary  bearer  of  this  intelHgence,  but  as  a 
woman  lost,  almost  beyond  redemption.  Will  you  re- 
turn to  this  gang  of  robbers,  and  to  this  man,  when  a 
word  can  save  you  ?  What  fascination  is  it  that  can 
take  you  back,  and  make  you  cling  to  wickedness  and 
misery  ?  Oh !  is  there  no  chord  in  3'our  heart  that  I  can 
touch?  Is  there  nothing  left  to  which  I  can  appeal 
against  this  terrible  infatuation  ?  ' 

" '  When  ladies  as  young  and  good  and  beautiful  as 


94  LIFE  AND   WKITINGS    OF 

you  are,'  replied  the  girl  steadily,  '  give  away  your 
hearts,  love  will  carry  you  all  lengths,  —  even  such  as 
you,  who  have  home,  friends,  other  admirers,  every 
thing  to  fill  them.  When  such  as  I,  who  have  no  cer- 
tain roof  but  the  coffin-lid,  and  no  friend  in  sickness  or 
death  but  the  hospital-muse,  set  our  rotten  hearts  on 
any  man,  and  let  him  fill  the  place  that  has  been  a 
blank  through  all  our  wretched  lives,  who  can  hope  to 
cure  us  ?  Pity  us,  lady,  —  pity  us  for  having  only  one 
feeling  of  the  woman  left,  and  for  having  that  turned, 
by  a  heavy  judgment,  from  a  comfort  and  a  pride  into  a 
new  means  of  violence  and  suffering.' 

" '  You  will,'  said  Rose  after  a  pause,  '  take  some 
money  from  me,  which  may  enable  you  to  live  without 
dishonesty,  —  at  all  events  until  we  meet  again  ?  ' 

"  '  Not  a  penny,'  replied  the  girl,  waving  her  hand. 

" '  Do  not  close  your  heart  against  all  my  efforts  to 
help  you,'  said  Rose,  stepping  gently  forward.  '  I  wish 
to  serve  you,  indeed.' 

" '  You  would  serve  me  best,  lady,'  replied  the  girl, 
wringing  her  hands,  '  if  you  could  take  my  life  at  once  ; 
for  I  have  felt  more  grief  to  think  of  what  I  am  to- 
night than  I  ever  did  before  ;  and  it  would  be  something 
not  to  die  in  the  same  hell  in  which  I  have  lived.  God 
bless  you,  sweet  lady,  and  send  as  much  happiness  on 
3'our  liead  as  I  have  brought  shame  on  mine  ! ' 

"  Thus  speaking,  and  sol)bing  aloud,  the  unhappy 
creature  turned  away  ;  while  Rose  May  lie,  overpowered 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  95 

by  this  extraordinary  interview,  whicli  had  more  the 
semblance  of  a  rapid  dream  than  an  actual  occurrence, 
sank  into  a  chair,  and  endeavored  to  collect  her  wander- 
ing thoughts." 

Space  forbids,  in  tliis  chapter,  further  selection  from 
this  soul-reaching  novel,  save  that  about  the  wicked 
Jew's  last  night  on  earth,  just  before  he  was  about  to 
meet  the  penalty  so  richly  deserved,  Shakspeare's  Jew 
Shylock,  and  the  Jew  Fagin  of  Dickens,  will  ever  live 
in  literature  as  ghastly  warnings  to  those  who  would 
be  wealthy  at  whatever  cost,  —  weighing  honor  and  in- 
tegrity in  the  balance  against  gold  and  silver. 

As  one  reads  the  graphic  word-picture  of  the  de- 
parted novelist,  one  seems  to  see  the  court-room,  the 
prison,  the  scaffold. 

"  The  court  was  paved  from  floor  to  roof  with  hu- 
man faces.  Inquisitive  and  eager  eyes  jDcered  from 
every  inch  of  space.  From  the  rail  before  the  dock, 
away  into  the  sharpest  angle  of  the  smallest  corner  in 
the  galleries,  all  looks  were  fixed  upon  one  man,  —  the 
Jew.  Before  him  and  behind ;  above,  below,  on  the 
right,  and  on  the  left :  he  seemed  to  stand  surrounded 
by  a  firmament,  all  bright  with  gleaming  eyes. 

"  He  stood  there,  in  all  this  glare  of  living  light,  with 
one  hand  resting  on  the  wooden  slab  before  him,  the 
other  held  to  his  ear,  and  his  head  thrust  forward  to  en- 
able him  to  catch  with  greater  distinctness  every  word 


96  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS  OP 

that  fell  from  tlie  presiding  judge,  who  was  delivering 
his  charge  to  the  jury.  At  times,  he  turned  his  eyes 
sharply  upon  them,  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  slightest 
feather-weight  in  his  favor,  and,  when  the  points  against 
him  were  stated  with  terrible  distinctness,  looked  to- 
wards his  counsel,  in  mute  appeal  that  he  would,  even 
then,  urge  something  in  his  behalf.  Bej'ond  these  man- 
ifestations of  anxiety,  he  stirred  not  hand  or  foot.  He 
had  scarcely  moved  since  the  trial  began  ;  and,  now  that 
the  judge  ceased  to  speak,  he  still  remained  in  the  same 
strained  attitude  of  close  attention,  with  his  gaze  bent 
on  him  as  though  he  listened  still. 

"A  slight  bustle  in  the  court  recalled  him  to  himself. 
Looking  round,  he  saw  that  the  jurymen  had  turned  to- 
gether, to  consider  of  their  verdict.  As  his  eyes  wan- 
dered to  the  gallery,  he  could  see  the  people  rising 
above  each  other  to  see  his  face,  —  some  hastily  applying 
their  glasses  to  their  eyes,  and  others  whispering  their 
neighbors  with  looks  expressive  of  abhorrence.  A  few 
there  were  who  seemed  unmindful  of  him,  and  looked 
only  to  the  jury,  in  impatient  wonder  how  they  could 
delay.  But  in  no  one  face  —  not  even  among  the  wo- 
men, of  whom  there  were  many  there  —  could  he  read 
the  faintest  sympathy  with  himself,  or  any  feeling  but 
one  of  all-absorbing  interest  that  he  should  be  con- 
demned. 

"  As  he  saAV  all  this  in  one  bewildered  glance,  the 
death-like  stillness  came  again;  and,  looking  back,  he 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  97 

saw  tliat  the  jurymen  had  turned  towards  the  judge. 
Hush ! 

"  They  only  sought  permission  to  retire. 

"  He  looked  wistfully  into  their  faces,  one  by  one, 
when  they  passed  out,  as  though  to  see  which  way  the 
greater  number  leaned;  but  that  was  fruitless.  The 
jailer  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  followed  me- 
chanically to  the  end  of  the  dock,  and  sat  down  on  a 
chah'.  The  man  pomted  it  out,  or  he  would  not  have 
seen  it. 

"  He  looked  up  into  the  gallery  again.  Some  of  the 
people  were  eating,  and  some  fanning  themselves  with 
handkerchiefs ;  for  the  crowded  place  was  very  hot. 
There  was  one  young  man  sketching  liis  face  in  a  little 
note-book.  He  wondered  whether  it  was  like,  and 
looked  on  when  the  artist  broke  his  pen'cil-point,  and 
made  another  with  his  knife,  as  any  idle  spectator  might 
have  done. 

"  In  the  same  way,  when  he  turned  his  eyes  towards 
the  judge,  his  mind  began  to  busy  itself  with  the  fashion 
of  his  dress,  and  what  it  cost,  and  how  he  put  it  on. 
There  was  an  old,  fat  gentleman  on  the  bench,  too,  who 
had  gone  out,  some  half  an  hour  before,  and  now  came 
back.  He  wondered  within  himself  whether  this  man 
had  been  to  get  his  dinner,  what  he  had  had,  and  where 
he  had  had  it ;  and  pursued  this  train  of  careless  thought 
until  some  new  object  caught  his  eye  and  roused  another. 

"  Not  that  all  this  time  his  mind  was,  for  an  instant, 
7 


98  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

free  from  one  oppressive,  overwhelming  sense  of  the 
grave  that  opened  at  liis  feet:  it  was  ever  present  to 
liim,  but  in  a  vague  and  general  way,  and  he  could  not 
fix  his  thoughts  upon  it.  Thus,  even  Avhile  he  trem- 
bled, and  turned  burning  hot  at  the  idea  of  speedy 
death,  he  fell  to  counting  the  iron  spikes  before  him, 
and  wondering  how  the  head  of  one  had  been  broken 
off,  and  whether  they  would  mend  it,  or  leave  it  as  it 
was.  Then  he  thought  of  all  the  horrors  of  the  gallows 
and  scaffold,  —  and  stopped  to  watch  a  man  sprinkling 
the  floor  to  cool  it,  —  and  then  went  on  to  think  again. 

"  At  length,  there  was  a  cry  of  silence,  and  a  breath- 
less look  from  all  towards  the  door.  The  jury  returned, 
and  passed  him  close.  He  could  glean  nothing  from 
their  faces :  they  might  as  well  have  been  of  stone. 
Perfect  silence  ensued  —  not  a  rustle  —  not  a  breath. 
Guilty. 

"  The  building  rang  with  a  tremendous  shout,  and  an- 
other, and  another  ;  and  then  it  echoed  deep,  loud  groans, 
that  gathered  strength  as  they  swelled  out,  like  angry 
thunder.  It  was  a  peal  of  joy  from  the  populace  out- 
side, greeting  the  news  that  he  would  die  on  Monday. 

"  The  noise  subsided,  and  he  was  asked  if  he  had  any 
thing  to  say  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  passed 
upon  him.  He  had  resumed  his  listening  attitude,  and 
looked  intently  at  his  questioner  while  the  demand  was 
made:  but  it  was  twice  repeated  before  he  seemed  to 
hf;ir  it  ;  and  then  he  only  muttered    tliat   he  was   an 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  99 

old  man  —  an  old  man  —  an  old  man  ;  and  so,  dropping 
into  a  whisper,  was  silent  again. 

"  The  judge  assumed  the  black  cap,  and  the  prisoner 
still  stood  with  the  same  air  and  gesture.  A  woman  in 
the  gallery  uttered  some  exclamation,  called  forth  by 
this  dread  solemnity.  He  looked  hastily  up  as  if  angry 
at  the  interruption,  and  bent  forward  yet  more  atten- 
tively. The  address  was  solemn  and  impressive,  the 
sentence  fearful  to  hear.  But  he  stood,  like  a  marble 
figure,  without  the  motion  of  a  nerve.  His  haggard 
face  was  still  thrust  forward,  his  under-jaw  hanging 
down,  and  his  eyes  staring  out  before  him,  when  the 
jailer  put  his  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  beckoned  him 
away.  He  gazed  stupidly  about  liim  for  an  instant,  and 
obeyed. 

"  They  led  him  through  a  paved  room  under  the 
court,  where  some  prisoners  were  waiting  till  their 
turns  came,  and  others  were  talking  to  their  friends, 
who  crowded  round  a  grate  which  looked  into  the  open 
yard.  There  was  nobody  to  speak  to  liim :  but,  as  he 
passed,  the  prisoners  fell  back  to  render  him  more  visi- 
ble to  the  people  who  were  clinging  to  the  bars  ;  and 
they  assailed  him  with  opprobrious  names,  and  screeched 
and  hissed.  He  shook  his  fist,  and  would  have  spat 
upon  them ;  but  his  conductors  hurried  him  on  through 
a  gloomy  passage,  lighted  by  a  few  dim  lamps,  into  the 
interior  of  the  prison. 

"  Here   he  was   searched,  that    he    might   not   have 


100  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

about  him  the  means  of  anticipating  the  hiw :  this  cere- 
moD}-  performed,  they  led  him  to  one  of  the  condemned 
cells,  and  left  him  there  —  alone. 

"  He  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  opposite  the  door, 
which  served  for  seat  and  bedstead,  and,  casting  his 
bloodshot  eyes,  upon  the  ground,  tried  to  collect  his 
thoughts.  After  a  while,  he  began  to  remember  a  few 
disjointed  fragments  of  what  the  judge  had  said ;  though 
it  had  seemed  to  him,  at  the  time,  that  he  could  not 
hear  a  word.  These  gradually  fell  into  their  proper 
places,  and  by  degrees  suggested  more :  so  that,  in  a  lit- 
tle time,  he  had  the  whole,  almost  as  it  was  delivered. 
To  be  hanged  by  the  neck  till  he  was  dead,  —  that  was 
the  end.     To  be  hanged  by  the  neck  till  he  was  dead. 

"As  it  came  on  very  dark,  he  began  to  think  of  all 
the  men  he  had  known  who  had  died  upon  the  scaffold, 
some  of  them  through  his  means.  They  rose  up  in 
such  quick  succession  that  he  could  hardly  count  them. 
He  had  seen  some  of  them  die,  —  and  had  joked,  too,  be- 
cause they  died  with  prayers  upon  their  lips.  With 
what  a  rattling  noise  the  drop  went  down  ;  and  how  sud- 
denly tliey  changed  from  strong  and  vigorous  men  to 
dangling  heaps  of  clothes  ! 

'.'  Some  of  them  might  have  inhabited  that  very  cell, 
—  sat  upon  that  very  spot.  It  was  very  dark  :•  why 
didn't  they  bring  a  light?  The  cell  had  been  built  for 
many  years.  Scores  of  men  must  have  passed  their  last 
hours  there.     It  was  like  sittin^■  in  a  vault  strewn  with 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  101 

dead  bodies,  —  the  cap,  tlie  noose,  the  pinioned  arms, 
the  faces  that  he  knew,  even  beneath  that  hideous  veil. 
Light!  hght! 

"  At  length,  when  his  hands  were  raw  with  beating 
against  the  heavy  door  and  walls,  two  men  appeared,  — 
one  bearing  a  candle,  which  he  thrust  into  an  iron  can- 
dlestick fixed  against  the  wall ;  the  other  dragging  in  a 
mattress  on  which  to  pass  the  night,  for  the  prisoner 
was  to  be  left  alone  no  more. 

"  Then  came  night,  —  dark,  dismal,  silent  night.  Other 
watchers  are  glad  to  hear  the  church-clocks  strike, 
for  they  tell  of  life  and  coming  day.  To  the  Jew,  they 
brought  despair.  The  boom  of  every  iron  bell  came 
laden  with  the  one  deep,  hollow  sound,  —  Death.  What 
availed  the  noise  and  bustle  of  cheerful  morning,  which 
penetrated  even  there,  to  him  ?  It  was  another  form  of 
knell,  with  mockery  added  to  the  warning. 

"  The  day  passed  off,  —  day  I  There  was  no  day :  it 
was  gone  as  soon  as  come,  and  night  came  on  again,  — 
night  so  long,  and  yet  so  short ;  long  in  its  dreadful  si- 
lence, and  short  in  its  fleeting  hours.  At  one  time,  he 
raved  and  blasphemed ;  and,  at  another,  howled  and  tore 
his  hair.  Venerable  men  of  his  own  persuasion  had 
come  to  pray  beside  him,  but  he  had  driven  them  away 
with  curses.  They  renewed  their  charitable  efforts,  and 
he  beat  them  off. 

"  Saturday  night.  He  had  onl}^  one  night  more  to 
live.  And,  as  he  thought  of  this,  the  day  broke,  —  Sun- 
day. 


102  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  It  was  not  until  the  night  of  tliis  last  awful  day, 
that  a  withering  sense  of  his  helpless,  desperate  state 
came  in  its  full  intensity  upon  his  blighted  soul:  not 
that  he  had  ever  held  any  defined  or  positive  hope  of 
mercy,  but  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  consider  more 
than  the  dim  probability  of  dying  so  soon.  He  had  spo- 
ken little  to  either  of  the  two  men  who  relieved  each 
other  in  their  attendance  upon  him ;  and  they,  for  their 
parts,  made  no  effort  to  rouse  his  attention.  He  had  sat 
there,  awake,  but  dreaming.  Now  he  started  up  every 
minute,  and,  with  gasping  mouth  and  burning  skin,  hur- 
ried to  and  fro,  in  such  a  paroxysm  of  fear  and  wrath, 
that  even  they  —  used  to  such  sights  —  recoiled  from 
him  with  horror.  He  grew  so  terrible  at  last,  in  all  the 
tortures  of  liis  evil  conscience,  that  one  man  could  not 
bear  to  sit  there  eymg  him  alone ;  and  so  the  two  kept 
watch  together. 

"  He  cowered  down  upon  his  stone  bed,  and  thought 
of  the  past.  He  had  been  wounded  with  some  missiles 
from  the  crowd  on  the  day  of  his  capture,  and  his  head 
was  bandaged  with  a  linen  cloth.  His  red  hair  hung 
down  upon  his  bloodless  face ;  his  beard  was  torn,  and 
twisted  into  knots ;  his  eyes  shone  with  a  terrible  light ; 
his  unwashed  flesh  crackled  with  the  fever  that  burnt 
him  up.  Eight  —  nine  —  ten.  If  it  was  not  a  trick  to 
frighten  him,  and  those  were  the  real  hours  treading  on 
each  other's  heels,  where  would  he  be  when  they  came 
round  again !    Eleven  !    Another  struck,  before  the  voice 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  103 

of  the  previous  hour  had  ceased  to  \T.brate.  At  eight, 
he  would  be  the  only  mourner  m  his  own  funeral  train ; 
at  eleven  — 

"  Those  dreadful  walls  of  Newgate,  which  have  hid- 
den so  much  misery  and  such  unspeakable  anguish,  not 
only  fi'om  the  eyes,  but,  too  often  and  too  long,  from  the 
thoughts,  of  men,  never  held  so  di'ead  a  spectacle  as 
that.  The  few  who  lingered  as  they  passed,  and  won- 
dered what  the  man  was  doing  who  was  to  be  hung  to- 
morrow, would  have  slept  but  ill  that  night  if  they 
could  have  seen  him. 

"  From  early  in  the  evening  until  nearly  midnight,  lit- 
tle groups  of  two  and  three  presented  themselves  at  the 
lodge-gate,  and  inquired,  with  anxious  faces,  whether 
any  reprieve  had  been  received.  These,  being  answered 
in  the  negative,  communicated  the  welcome  intelhgence 
to  clusters  in  the  street,  who  pointed  out  to  one  another 
the  door  from  which  he  must  come  out,  and  showed 
where  the  scaffold  would  be  built,  and,  walking  with 
unwilling  steps  away,  turned  back  to  conjure  up  the 
scene.  By  degrees  they  fell  off,  one  by  one  ;  and  for  an 
hour,  in  the  dead  of  night,  the  street  was  left  to  solitude 
and  darkness. 

"  The  space  before  the  prison  was  cleared,  and  a  few 
strong  barriers,  painted  black,  had  been  already  thrown 
across  the  road  to  break  the  pressure  of  the  expected 
crowd,  when  j\lr.  Brownlow  and  Oliver  appeared  at  the 
wicket,  and  presented  an  order  of  admission  to  the  pris- 


101  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

oiicr,  signed  by  one  of  the  sheriffs.  Tliey  were  immedi- 
ately admitted  into  the  lodge. 

"  '  Is  the  young  gentleman  to  come  too,  sir  ?  '  said  the 
man  whose  duty  it  was  to  conduct  them.  '  It's  not  a 
sight  lor  children,  sir. ' 

"  '  It  is  not  indeed,  my  friend,'  rejoined  Mr.  Brown- 
low  ;  '  but  my  Ijusiness  with  this  man  is  intimately  con- 
nected with  him ;  and,  as  this  child  has  seen  him  in  the 
full  career  of  his  success  and  villany,  I  think  it  well, 
even  at  the  cost  of  some  pain  and  fear,  that  he  should 
see  him  now.' 

"  These  few  words  had  been  said  apart,  so  as  to  be  in- 
audible  to  Oliver.  The  man  touched  his  hat ;  and,  glan- 
cing at  Oliver  with  some  curiosity,  opened  another  gate, 
opposite  to  that  b}"  which  they  had  entered,  and  led 
them  on,  through  dark  and  winding  ways,  towards  the 
cells. 

"  '  This,'  said  the  man,  stopping  in  a  gloomy  passage 
where  a  couple  of  workmen  were  making  some  prepara- 
tions in  profound  silence,  — '  this  is  the  place  he  passes 
through.  If  you  step  this  way,  3'ou  can  see  the  door  he 
goes  out  at. ' 

"  He  led  them  into  a  stone  kitchen,  fitted  with  cop- 
pers for  dressing  the  prison  food,  and  pointed  to  a  door. 
There  was  an  open  grating  above  it,  through  which  came 
the  sound^  of  men's  voices,  mingled  with  the  noise  of 
hammering,  and  the  throwing  down  of  boards.  They 
were  putting  up  the  scaffold. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  105 

"  From  this  place,  they  passed  through  several  strong 
gates,  opened  by  other  turnkeys  from  the  inn^*  side  ; 
and,  having  entered  an  open  yard,  ascended  a  flight  of 
narrow  steps,  and  came  into  a  passage  with  a  row  of 
strong  doors  on  the  left  hand.  Motioning  them  to  re- 
main where  they  were,  the  turnkey  knocked  at  one  of 
these  with  his  bunch  of  keys.  The  two  attendants,  after 
a  little  whispering,  came  out  into  the  passage,  stretching 
themselves  as  if  glad  of  the  temporary  relief,  and  mo- 
tioned the  visitors  to  follow  the  jailer  into  the  cell. 
They  did  so. 

"  The  condemned  criminal  was  seated  on  his  bed, 
rocking  himself  from  side  to  side,  with  a  countenance 
more  like  that  of  a  snared  beast  than  the  face  of  a  man. 
His  mind  was  evidently  wandering  to  his  old  life  ;  for  he 
continued  to  mutter,  without  appearing  conscious  of 
their  presence  otherwise  than  as  a  part  of  his  vision. 

"  '  Good  boy,  Charley  —  well  done  ! '  —  he  mumbled. 
'  Oliver  too,  —  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  Oliver  too  —  quite  the  gen- 
tleman now  —  quite  the  —  take  that  boy  away  to  bed ! ' 

"  The  jailer  took  the  disengaged  hand  of  Oliver  ;  and, 
whispering  him  not  to  be  alarmed,  looked  on  without 
speaking. 

"  '  Take  him  away  to  bed  ! '  cried  the  Jew.  '  Do  jou 
hear  me,  some  of  you  ?  He  has  been  the  —  the  —  some- 
how the  cause  of  all  this.  It's  worth  the  money  to 
bring  him  up  to  it  —  Bolter's  throat.  Bill ;  never  mind 
the  girl  —  Bolter's  throat  as  deep  as  you  can  cut.  Saw 
his  head  off!' 


106  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  '  Fagin,'  said  the  jailer. 

"  '  That's  me  ! '  cried  the  Jew,  falling  instantly  into 
the  attitude  of  listening  he  had  assumed  upon  his  trial. 
'  An  old  man,  my  lord,  —  a  very  old,  old  man  ! ' 

"  '  Here,'  said  the  turnkey,  lajdng  his  hand  upon  his 
breast  to  keep  him  down.  '  Here's  somebody  wants  to 
see  you,  —  to  ask  you  some  questions,  I  suppose.  Fagin, 
Fagin !     Are  you  a  man  ? ' 

"  '  I  sha'n't  be  one  long,'  replied  the  Jew,  looking  up 
with  a  face  retaining  no  human  expression  but  rage  and 
terror.  '  Strike  them  all  dead  !  what  right  have  the}'  to 
butcher  me  ? ' 

"  As  he  spoke,  he  caught  sight  of  Oliver  and  Mr. 
Brownlow.  Shrinldng  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  seat, 
he  demanded  to  know  what  they  wanted  there. 

"  '  Steady, '  said  the  turnkey,  still  holding  him  down. 
'  Now,  sir,  tell  him  what  you  want,  —  quick,  if  you 
please,  for  he  grows  worse  as  the  time  gets  on.' 

" '  You  have  some  papers,'  said  Mr.  Brownlow,  ad- 
vancing, '  which  were  placed  in  your  hands,  for  better 
security,  by  a  man  called  Monks.' 

" '  It's  all  a  lie  together,'  replied  the  Jew.  '  I 
haven't  one,  —  not  one.' 

"  '  For  the  love  of  God,'  said  Mr.  Brownlow  solemnly, 
'  do  not  say  that  now,  upon  the  very  verge  of  death  ;  but 
tell  me  where  they  are.  You  know  that  Sykes  is  dead, 
that  Monks  has  confessed,  that  there  is  no  hope  of  any 
further  gain.     Where  arc  those  papers  ?  ' 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  107 

"  '  Oliver,'  cried  the  Jew,  beckoning  to  him.  '  Here, 
here  !     Let  me  Avhisper  to  you.' 

"  '  I  am  not  afraid,'  said  Oliver  in  a  loud  voice,  as  he 
relinquished  Mv.  Brownlow's  hand. 

"  '  The  papers,'  said  the  Jew,  drawing  him  towards 
him,  '  are  in  a  canvas  bag,  in  a  hole  a  little  way  up  the 
chimney,  in  the  top  front  room.  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
my  dear.     I  want  to  talk  to  you.' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,'  returned  Oliver.  '  Let  me  say  a  prayer. 
Do  !  Say  only  one,  upon  your  knees,  with  me,  and  we 
will  talk  till  morning.' 

"  '  Outside,  outside,'  replied  the  Jew,  pushnig  the  boy 
before  him  towards  the  door,  and  looking  vacantly  over 
his  head.  '  Say  I've  gone  to  sleep  :  they'll  believe  t/ou. 
You  can  get  me  out  if  yon  take  me  so.  Now,  then ; 
now,  then ! ' 

" '  O  God,  forgive  this  wretched  man ! '  cried  the 
bo}'"  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  '  That's  right,  that's  right,'  said  the  Jew.  '  That'll 
help  us  on.  This  door  first.  If  I  shake  and  tremble, 
as  we  pass  the  gallows,  don't  you  mind,  but  hiirr}^  on. 
Now,  now,  now  ! ' 

"  '  Have  you  nothing  else  to  ask  him,  sir  ?  '  inquired 
the  turnkey. 

"  '  No  other  question,'  replied  Mr.  Brownlow.  '  If  I 
hoped  we  could  recall  him  to  a  sense  of  his  position  '  — 

"  '  Nothing  will  do  that,  sir,'  replied  the  man,  shaking 
his  head.     '  You  had  better  leave  him.' 


lOS  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS. 

"  The  door  of  the  cell  opened,  and  the  attendants  re- 
turned. 

"  '  Press  on,  press  on ! '  cried  the  Jew.  '  Softly,  but 
not  so  slow.     Faster,  faster  ! ' 

"  The  men  laid  hands  upon  him,  and,  disengaging 
Ohver  fi-om  his  grasp,  held  him  back.  He  struggled 
with  the  power  of  desperation  for  an  instant,  and  then 
sent  up  cry  upon  cry  that  penetrated  even  those  massive 
walls,  and  rang  in  their  ears  until  they  reached  the  open 
yard. 

"  It  was  some  time  before  they  left  the  prison.  Ohver 
nearly  swooned  after  this  frightful  scene,  and  was  so 
Aveak  that  for  an  hour  or  more  he  had  not  the  strength 
to  walk. 

"  Day  was  dawning  when  they  again  emerged.  A 
great  multitude  had  already  assembled:  the  windows 
were  filled  with  people,  smoking,  and  playing  cards,  to 
l)eguile  the  time.  The  crowd  were  pushing,  quarrelling, 
and  joldng.  Every  thing  told  of  life  and  animation, 
l)ut  one  dark  cluster  of  objects,  in  the  very  centre  of  all, 
—  the  black  stage,  the  cross-beam,  and  the  rope,  and  all 
the  hideous  apparatus  of  death." 


CHAPTER   V. 


ONE    OF    HIS    BEST. 


Nicholas  Nickleby.  —  Opinion  of  "The  Methodist." —  Thackeray's.  — The  Squecrs 
School.  —  Henry  Ward  Beecher's  Testimony. 


"  Have  pity  on  them,  for  their  life 
Is  full  of  grief  and  care. 
You  do  not  know  one-half  the  woes  * 

The  very  poor  must  bear ; 
You  do  not  see  the  silent  tears 

By  many  a  mother  shed, 
As  childhood  offers  up  the  prayer,  — 
'  Give  us  our  daily  bread.'  " 

Mrs.  Jane  F.  "Worthington. 

"  Hath  not  God  chosen  the  poor  of  this  world  rich  in  faith,  and  heirs  of  the  king- 
dom which  he  hath  promised  to  them  that  love  him."  —  Jas.  ii.  5. 

I  BOUT  the  year  1839  was  published,  in 
shilhng  numbers,  uniform  with  "  Pick- 
wick," another  characteristic  novel  from 
the  pen  of  Cliarles  Dickens.  This  was 
entitled  Nicholas  Nickleby.  It  became 
very  popular  abroad,  as  well  as  in  England,  and  was 
dramatized  in  France,  as  were  also  several  other  of  his 
works.  Thackeray  once  wrote  a  laughable  account  of  a 
performance  of  "  Neekolass  Neeklbee  "  which  he  attended 
in  Paris.  At  present,  a  French  edition  of  Dickens's  novels 
is  announced  ;  and  the  news  of  his  death  was  unwelcome 

109 


110  LIFE    AND    WitlTIXGS    OF 

in  foreign  lands  as  well  as  in  "  merrie  "  England.    Those, 
in  all  lands,  most  familiar  with  the  creations  of  Mr.  Dick- 
ens's  genius,  and   most   capable   of  appreciating   such 
creations,  render  him  a  verdict  of  praise  and  thanks. 
"  The  Methodist,"  with  Avise  discrimination,  says,  — 

"  His  volumes  have  reformed  some  of  the  most  pro- 
found vices  of  English  life,  — the  Yorkshire  schools,  the 
Debtors'  Prison,  the  intolerable  grievances  of  Chancery. 
What  defects  of  British  society  has  he  not  attempted  to 
amehorate  ?  But,*  aside  from  his  sarcasm,  his  humorous 
caricature,  the  genial  method  by  which  he  would  correct 
grievous  evils,  he  has  infused  a  moral  vitality  into  all 
the  veins  and  arteries  of  English  common  life  by  his 
genial  teachings,  his  boundless  illustration  of  character, 
th^  habitu^  humanity  and  benevolence  of  his  senti- 
ments, and  the  general  high  tone  of  his  morality.  His 
pages  are  unsullied  with  any  of  that  grossness  which 
had,  down  to  his  day,  seemed  inseparable  from  English 
liumor. 

"  The  greatest  of  the  British  humorists,  —  for  we  do 
not  hesitate  to  accord  him  this  pre-eminence,  —  he  is  also 
the  purest  of  them  all.  Not  to  speak  of  Swift  and  Sterne 
and  Fielding  and  Smollett,  he  is  even  less  blemished 
than  Goldsmith  or  Addison.  He  does,  indeed,  too  often 
draw  humor  from  drinking  scenes  ;  but  in  this  he  repre- 
sents the  standard  sentiment  of  his  countrymen.  No 
other  taint  can  be  detected  by  the  acutest  moral  analysis 
of  his  pages.  ... 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  Ill 

"  His  works  can  be  unreservedly  placed  in  any  vir- 
tuous household.  They  cannot  be  read  by  the  young 
without  neutralizing  a  taste  for  lower  hterature  ;  with- 
out imparting  freshness,  healthfulness,  geniality,  and 
moral  tone  to  the  susceptibilities  of  youth." 

"  Nicholas  Nicldeby  "  dealt  with  the  abuses  in  cheap 
Yorkshire  schools,  at  which  body  and  mind  were  both 
kept  on  starvation  diet,  and  broke  up  a  system  which 
was  disgraceful  to  a  civilized  country.  It  showed,  as 
did  "  Oliver  Twist,"  that  the  author  was  still  working 
for  the  emancipation  of  boyhood.  He  drew  from  real 
life  his  pictures  of  Dotheboys  Hall  and  the  miserable 
Squeers  who  domineered  therein.  It  was  only  a  humor- 
ous exaggeration,  if  it  was  an  exaggeration  at  all,  of 
evils  really  existing  which  he  desired  to  esjjupse  in  order 
to  correct.  And  he  did  correct  them.  After-years 
showed  that  he  labored  not  in  vain ;  so  that,  in  liis  pref- 
ace to  a  later  edition,  he  could  say  of  the  cheap  York- 
shire schools  he  depicted,  "  There  are  very  few  now." 
The  righteous  indignation  and  Christian  disgust  he  felt  in 
regard  to  such  miserable  substitutes  for  good  schools  led 
him  to  characterize  the  masters  in  this  forcible  language. 

"  Of  the  monstrous  neglect  of  education  in  England, 
and  the  disregard  of  it  by  the  State  as  the  means  of 
forming  good  or  bad  citizens  and  miserable  or  happy 
men,  private  schools  long  afforded  a  notable  example. 


112  LlFli    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

Althougli  an}^  man,  wlio  haJ  proved  liis  unfitness  for  any 
other  occupation  in  lil'e,  was  free,  witliout  examination 
or  qualification,  to  open  a  school  anywhere  ;  although 
preparation  for  the  functions  he  undertook  was  required 
in  the  surgeon  who  assisted  to  bring  a  boy  into  the 
world,  or  might  one  day  assist,  perhaps,  to  send  him  out 
of  it;  in  the  chemist,  the  attorney,  the  butcher,  the 
baker,  the  candlestick-maker,  the  whole  round  of  crafts 
and  trades,  the  schoolmaster  excepted;  and  although 
schoolmasters,  as  a  race,  were  the  blockheads  and  impos- 
tors who  might  naturally  be  expected  to  spring  from 
such  a  state  of  things,  and  to  flourish  in  it,  — these  York- 
shu'e  schoolmasters  were  the  lowest  and  most  rotten 
round  in  the  whole  ladder.  Traders  in  the  avarice,  in- 
difference, imbecility,  of  parents,  and  the  helplessness  of 
cliildreu  ;  i|porant,  sordid,  brutal  men,  to  whom  few 
considerate  persons  would  have  intrusted  the  board  and 
lodging  of  a  horse  or  a  dog,  —  they  formed  the  worthy 
corner-stone  of  a  structure,  which,  for  absurdity  and  a 
magnificent,  high-minded,  laissez-aller  neglect,  has  rarely 
been  exceeded  in  the  world." 

And  solemnly  iji  tlie  preface,  Mr.  Dickens  affirmed 
that  liis  picture  of  the  Squeers  school  was  a  truthful 
one,  saying,  — 

"The  author's  object  in  calling  public  attention  to 
the  system  would  be  very  imperfectly  fulfilled,  if  he  did 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  113 

not  state  now,  in  his  own  person,  emphatically  and  ear- 
nestly, that  Mr.  Squeers  and  his  school  are  faint  and  fee- 
ble pictures  of  an  existing  reality,  purposely  subdued 
and  kept  down  lest  they  should  be  deemed  impossible. 
That  there  are,  upon  record,  trials  at  law  in  which  dam- 
ages have  been  sought  as  a  poor  recompense  for  lasting 
agonies  and  disfigurements  inflicted  upon  children  by 
the  treatment  of  the  master  in  these  places,  involving 
such  offensive  and  foul  details  of  neglect,  cruelty,  and 
disease,  as  no  writer  of  fiction  would  have  the  boldness 
to  imagine.  And  that,  since  lie  has  been  engaged  upon 
these  Adventures,  he  has  received,  from  private  quarters 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  suspicion  or  distrust,  accounts 
of  atrocities,  in  the  perpetration  of  which  upon  neglected 
or  repudiated  children  these  schools  have  been  the  main 
instruments,  very  far  exceeding  any  that  appear  in  these 
pages. " 

Charles  Dickens  loved  children.  He  wrote  for  their 
good.  He  may  be  called  the  children's  friend.  The 
brilliant  Thackeray,  in  one  of  his  lectures  on  "English 
Humorists  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  "  paid  an  eloquent 
and  touching  tribute  to  the  pure  genius  of  Dickens,  and 
in  it  referred  thus  to  him  and  to  "  Nicholas  Nickleby." 

"  As  for  this  man's  love  of  children,  that  amiable  or- 
gan at  the  back  of  his  honest  head  must  be  perfectly 
monstrous.     All  children  ought  to  love  him.     I  know 


114  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

two  that  do,  and  read  liis  books  ten  times  for  once  that 
they  peruse  the  thsmal  preachments  of  their  father.  I 
know  one  who,  when  she  is  happy,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nic- 
kleby ; '  when  she  is  unhappy,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby ; ' 
Avhen  she  is  tired,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby ; '  when  she 
is  in  bed,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby  ; '  when  she  has  noth- 
ing to  do,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby ; '  and,  when  she  has 
finished  the  book,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby '  over  again. 
Tliis  candid  young  critic,  at  ten  years  of  age,  said,  '  I 
like  ]\Ir.  Dickens's  books  much  better  than  I  do  your 
books,  papa;'  and  frequently  expressed  her  desire  that 
the  latter  author  should  write  a  book  like  one  of  j\lr. 
Dickens's  books.  Who  can  ?  Every  man  must  say  his 
own  thoughts  in  Iris  own  voice,  in  his  own  way :  lucky 
is  he  who  has  such  a  charming  gift  of  nature  as  this, 
which  brings  all  the  children  in  the  world  trooping  to 
him  ai^d  being  fond  of  him. 

"  I  remember,  wdien  the  famous  '  Nicholas  Nicldeby ' 
came  out,  seeing  a  letter  from  a  pedagogue  in  the  north 
of  England,  which,  dismal  as  it  was,  was  immensely  com- 
ical. '  Mr.  Dickens's  ill-advised  publication,'  wrote  the 
poor  schoolmaster, '  has  passed  like  a  whirlwind  over  the 
schools  of  the  north.'  He  was  the  proprietor  of  a  cheap 
school.  Dotheboys  Hall  was  a  cheap  school.  There 
were  many  such  establishments  in  the  northern  coun- 
ties. Parents  were  ashamed  that  never  were  ashamed 
before  until  the  kind  satirist  laughed  at  them ;  relatives 
were  frightened ;  scores  of  little  scholars  were  taken 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  115 

away ;  poor  schoolmasters  had  to  shut  their  shops  up ; 
every  pedagogue  was  voted  a  Squeers,  and  many  suf- 
fered, no  doubt,  unjustly  ;  but  afterwards  school-boys' 
backs  were  not  so  much  caned,  school-boys'  meat  was 
less  tough  and  more  plentiful,  and  school-boys'  milk 
was  not  so  sky-blue.  What  a  kind  light  of  benevolence 
it  is  that  plays  round  Crummies  and  the  Phenomenon, 
and  all  those  poor  theatre  people  in  that  charming  book  ! 
Y/hat  a  humor  !  And  what  a  good  humor  !  I  coincide 
with  the  3'outhful  critic  whose  opinion  has  just  been 
mentioned,  and  own  to  a  family  admiration  for  Nicholas 
Nicldeby.  " 

Tliis  side  the  water,  the  great  Brooklyn  preacher, 
whom  all  Christians  love,  bore  this  testimony  concern- 
ing Mr.  Dickens  and  his  book  :  — 

"  Many  ameliorations  of  bad  laws  and  cruel  customs 
can  be  traced  to  the  influence  of  his  pen.  I  remember 
his  saying  to  me  in  the  room  adjoining,  in  a  modest 
way,  that  since  his  account  of  Mr.  Squeers's  school,  in 
which  Nicholas  Nickleby  was  not  educated,  such  schools 
had  passed  away  from  England.  His  writings  led  the 
way  to  many  reforms,  and  made  many  abuses  ashamed." 

No  one  who  has  read  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "can  fail 
to  remember  the  description  of  Mr.  Squeers,  or  to  de- 
spise the  Yorkshire  schoolmaster  thus  described  :  — 


11(3  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OP 

"  Mr.  Squeers's  appearance  was  not  prepossessing. 
He  had  but  one  eye ;  and  the  popular  prejudice  runs  in 
favor  of  two.  The  eye  he  had  was  unquestionably 
useful,  but  decidedly  not  ornamental ;  being  of  a  green- 
ish gray,  and  in  shape  resembling  the  fan-light  of  a 
street-door.  The  blank  skle  of  his  face  was  much  wrin- 
kled and  puckered  up,  which  gave  him  a  very  sinister 
appearance,  especially  when  he  smiled ;  at  which  times 
Ids  expression  bordered  closel}''  on  the  villanous.  His 
hair  was  very  flat  and  shiny,  save  at  the  ends,  where  it 
was  brushed  stiffly  up  from  a  low,  protruding  forehead, 
which  assorted  well  with  his  harsh  voice  and  coarse 
manner.  He  was  about  two  or  three  and  fifty,  and  a 
trifle  below  the  middle  size.  He  wore  a  white  necker- 
chief with  long  ends,  and  a  suit  of  scholastic  black  ;  but 
his  coat-sleeves  being  a  great  deal  too  long,  and  his 
trousers  a  great  deal  too  short,  he  appeared  ill  at  ease  in 
his  clothes,  and  as  if  he  were  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
astonishment  at  finding  himself  so  respectable. 

"  Mr.  Squcers  was  standing  in  a  box  by  one  of  the 
coffee-room  fireplaces,  fitted  with  one  such  table  as  is 
usually  seen  in  coffee-rooms,  and  two  of  extraordinary 
shapes  and  dimensions,  made  to  suit  the  angles  of  tlie 
partition.  In  a  corner  of  the  seat  was  a  very  small  deal 
trunk,  tied  round  with  a  scanty  piece  of  cord ;  and  on 
tlie  trunk  was  perched  —  his  lace-up  half-boots  and  cor- 
duroy trousers  dangling  in  the  air  —  a  diminutive  boy, 
with   shoulders  drawn  up  to   his  ears,  and  his  hands 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  117 

j)lanted.  on  his  knees,  who  glanced  timidly  at  the  school- 
master from  time  to  time,  with  evident  dread  and  ap- 
prehension. 

" '  Half-past  three,'  muttSred  Mr.  Squeers,  turning 
from  the  window,  and  looking  sulkily  at  the  coffee-room 
clock.     '  There  will  be  nobody  here  to-day.' 

"  Much  vexed  by  this  reflection,  Mr.  Squeers  looked 
at  the  little  boy  to  see  whether  he  was  doing  any  tiling 
he  could  beat  him  for.  As  he  happened  not  to  be  doing 
any  thing  at  all,  he  merely  boxed  his  ears,  and  told  him 
not  to  do  it  again. 

"  '  At  midsumtner,'  muttered  Mr.  Squeers,  resuming 
his  complaint,  '  I  took  down  ten  boys :  ten  twentys  is 
two  hundi-ed  pound.  I  go  back  at  eight  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning,  and  have  got  only  three,  —  three 
oughts  is  an  ought,  three  twos  is  six,  —  sixty  pound. 
What's  come  of  all  the  boys?  What's  parents  got  in 
theu'  heads  ?     What  does  it  all  mean  ?  ' 

"  Here  the  little  boy  on  the  top  of  the  trunk  gave  a 
violent  sneeze. 

"  '  Holloa,  sir  ! '  growled  the  schoolmaster,  turning 
round.     '  What's  that,  sir  ?  ' 

"  '  Nothing,  please,  sir,'  said  the  little  boy. 

"  '  Nothing,  sir  !  '  exclaimed  JMr.  Squeers. 

"  '  Please,  sir,  I  sneezed,'  rejoined  the  boy,  trembling 
till  the  little  trunk  shook  under  him. 

"  '  Oh  !  sneezed,  did  you  ?  '  retorted  Mr.  Squeers. 
*  Then  what  did  you  say,  "  Nothing  "  for,  sir  ?  ' 


118  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OP 

"  In  default  of  a  better  answer  to  this  question,  the 
little  boy  screwed  a  couple  of  knuckles  into  each  of  his 
eyes,  and  began  to  cry  ;  Avherefore  INIr.  Squeers  knocked 
him  off  the  trunk  with  a  blow  on  one  side  of  his  face, 
and  knocked  him  on  again  with  a  blow  on  the  other. 

"  '  Wait  till  I  get  you  down  into  Yorkshire,  my  young 
gentleman,'  said  Mr.  Squeers,  '  and  then  I'll  give  you  the 
rest.     Will  you  hold  that  noise,  sir  ?  ' 

"  '  Ye-ye-yes,'  sobbed  the  little  boy,  rubbing  his  face 
very  hard  with  the  '  Beggar's  Petition '  in  printed  calico. 
"  '  Then  do  so  at  once,  sir,'  said  Squeers.     '  Do  you 
hear?' 

"  As  this  admonition  was  accompanied  with  a  threat- 
ening gesture,  and  uttered  with  a  savage  aspect,  the 
little  boy  rubbed  his  face  harder,  as  if  to  keep  the  tears 
back,  and,  beyond  alternately  sniffing  and  choking,  gave 
no  further  vent  to  his  emotions. 

"  '  Mr.  Squeers,'  said  the  waiter,  looking  in  at  this 
juncture, '  here's  a  gentleman  asldng  for  you  at  the  bar.' 
" '  Show  the  gentleman  in,  Hichard,'  replied  Mr. 
Squeers  in  a  soft  voice.  '  Put  your  handkerchief  in 
your  pocket,  you  little  scoundrel,  or  Til  murder  you 
wlicu  the  gentleman  goes.' 

'•  Tlie  schoolmaster  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words 
in  a  lierce  whisper,  when  the  stranger  entered.  Affect- 
ing not  to  see  him,  Mr.  Squeers  feigned  to  be  intent 
uj)on  mending  a  pen,  and  offering  benevolent  advice  to 
liis  youthful  pupil. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  119 

"  '  My  dear  child,'  said  Mr.  Squeers,  '  all  people  have 
their  trials.  This  early  trial  of  yours,  that  is  fit  to  make 
your  little  heart  burst,  and  your  very  eyes  come  out  of 
your  head  with  crying,  what  is  it  ?  Nothing,  less  than 
nothing.  You  are  leaving  your  friends  ;  but  you  will  have 
a  father  in  me,  my  dear,  and  a  mother  in  Mrs.  Squeers. 
At  the  delightful  village  of  Dotheboys,  near  Greta 
Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  where  youth  are  boarded,  clothed, 
booked,  washed,  furnished  with  pocket-money,  provided 
with  all  necessaries  " — 

"  '  It  is  the  gentleman,'  observed  the  stranger,  stop- 
ping the  schoolmaster  in  the  rehearsal  of  his  advertise- 
ment.    '  Mr.  Squeers,  I  believe,  sir  ?  ' 

" '  The  same,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Squeers,  with  an  assump- 
tion of  extreme  surprise. 

"  '  The  gentleman,'  said  the  stranger,  '  that  advertised 
in  "  The  Times  "  newspaper  ?  ' 

—  "'"Morning  Post,"  "  Chronicle,"  "  Herald,"  and 
"  Advertiser,"  regarding  the  Academy  called  Dothebo^^s 
Hall,  at  the  delightful  village  of  Dotheboys,  near  Greta 
Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,'  added  Mr.  Squeers.  '  You  come  on 
business,  su",  I  see  by  my  young  friends.  How  do  you 
do,  my  little  gentleman  ?  and  how  do  i/ou  do,  sir  ?  ' 
With  this  salutation,  Mr.  Squeers  patted  the  heads  of  two 
hollow-eyed,  small-boned  little  boys,  whom  the  appli- 
cant had  brought  with  him,  and  waited  for  fiu"ther  coni- 
munications." 


1-jO  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

After  such  a  description  of  the  master,  what  may  be 
expected  as  a  picture  of  the  school  ?  The  introduction 
which  Nicholas  Nickleby  had  to  the  young  noblemen 
of  Dotheboys  Hall,  and  the  manner  in  which  they  were 
treated  in  regard  to  food  and  medicine,  gives  the  answer. 
Mr.  Squeers  led  Nicholas   to  the   schoolroom,  saying, 

"  '  This  is  our  shop,  Nickleby.' 

"  It  was  such  a  crowded  scene,  and  there  were  so 
many  objects  to  attract  attention,  that,  at  first,  Nicholas 
stared  about  liim,  reall}^  without  seeing  any  thing  at  all. 
B}'  degrees,  however,  the  place  resolved  itself  into  a 
bare  and  dirty  room,  with  a  couple  of  windows,  whereof 
a  tenth  part  might  be  of  glass,  the  remainder  being 
stopped  up  with  old  copybooks  and  paper.  There  were 
a  couple  of  long,  old,  rickety  desks,  cut  and  notched 
and  inked,  and  damaged  in  every  possible  way ;  two  or 
three  forms ;  a  detached  desk  for  Squeers,  and  another 
for  his  assistant.  The  ceiling  was  supported,  like  that 
of  a  barn,  by  cross-beams  and  rafters  ;  and  the  walls 
were  so  stained  and  discolored  that  it  was  impossible  to 
tell  whether  they  had  ever  been  touched  with  paint  or 
whitewash. 

'•  But  the  pupils,  —  the  young  noblemen  !  How  the 
last  faint  traces  of  hope,  the  remotest  glimmering  of  any 
good  to  be  derived  from  his  efforts  in  this  den,  faded 
from  the  mind  of  Nicholas  as  he  looked  in  dismay 
around !     Pale  and  haggard  faces,  hmk  and  bony  fig- 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  121 

ures,  children  with  the  countenances  of  old  men,  de- 
formities with  irons  upon  their  limbs,  boys  of  stunted 
growth,  and  others  whose  long,  meagre  legs  would 
hardly  bear  their  stooping  bodies,  all  crowded  on  the 
view  together.  There  were  the  bleared  eye,  the  hair-lip, 
the  crooked  foot,  and  every  ugliness  or  distortion  that 
told  of  unnatural  aversion  conceived  by  parents  for  their 
offspring,  or  of  young  lives  which,  from  the  earliest 
dawn  of  infancy,  had  been  one  horrible  endurance  of 
cruelty  and  neglect;  there  were  little  faces  which 
should  have  been  handsome,  darkened  with  the  scowl 
of  sullen,  dogged  suffering ;  there  was  childhood,  with 
the  light  of  its  eye  quenched,  its  beauty  gone,  and  its 
helplessness  alone  remaining ;  there  were  vicious-faced 
boys,  brooding,  with  leaden  eyes,  like  malefactors  in  a 
jail ;  and  there  were  young  creatures,  on  whom  the  sins 
of  their  frail  parents  had  descended,  weeping  even  for 
the  mercenary  nurses  they  had  known,  and  lonesome 
even  in  their  loneliness.  With  every  kindly  sympathy 
and  affection  blasted  in  its  birth,  with  every  young  and 
healthy  feeling  flogged  and  starved  down,  with  every 
revengeful  passion  that  can  fester  in  swollen  hearts  eat- 
ing its  evil  way  to  their  core  in  silence,  what  an  incipient 
hell  was  breeding  here  ! 

"  And  yet  this  scene,  painful  as  it  was,  had  its  gro- 
tesque features,  which,  in  a  less  interested  observer  than 
Nicholas,  might  have  provoked  a  smile.  Mrs.  Squeers 
stood  at  one  of  the  desks,  presiding  over  an  immense 


122  LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF 

basin  of  brimstone  and  treacle,  of  which  delicious  com- 
pound she  administered  a  large  instalment  to  each  boy 
in  succession,  using  for  the  purpose  a  common  wooden 
spoon,  which  might  have  been  originally  manufactured 
for  some  gigantic  top,  and  which  widened  every  young- 
gentleman's  mouth  considerably  ;  they  being  all  obliged, 
under  heavy  corporal  penalties,  to  take  in  the  whole  of 
the  bowl  at  a  gasp.  In  another  corner,  huddled  to- 
gether for  companionship,  were  the  little  boys  who  had 
arrived  on  the  preceding  night,  —  three  of  them  in  very 
large  leather  breeches,  and  two  in  old  trousers,  a  some- 
what tighter  fit  than  drawers  are  usually  worn.  At  no 
great  distance  from  these  was  seated  the  juvenile  son 
and  heir  of  Mr.  Squeers,  —  a  striking  Idleness  of  his 
father,  —  kicking,  with  great  vigor,  under  the  hands  of 
Smike,  who  was  fitting  upon  him  a  pair  of  new  boots 
that  bore  a  most  suspicious  resemblance  to  those  which 
the  least  of  the  little  boys  had  worn  on  the  journey 
down,  as  the  little  boy  himself  seemed  to  think,  for 
he  was  regarding  the  appropriation  with  a  look  of  most 
rueful  amazement.  Besides  these,  there  was  a  long  row 
of  boys  waiting,  with  countenances  of  no  pleasant  anti- 
cipation, to  be  treacled  ;  and  unotlier  file,  who  had  just 
escaped  from  the  infliction,  maldng  a  variety  of  Avry 
mouths  indicative  of  any  thing  but  satisfaction.  The 
whole  were  attired  in  such  motley,  ill-sorted,  extraordi- 
nary garments,  as  would  have  been  irresistibly  ridicu- 
lous, but  for  the  foul  appearance  of  (hrt,  disorder,  and 
disease,  with  wliich  they  were  associated. 


CHAKLES    DICKENS.  123 

"  '  Now,'  said  Squeers,  giving  the  desk  a  great  rap 
with  his  cane,  whicli  made  half  the  little  boys  nearly 
jump  out  of  their  boots,  'is  that  physicking  over  ?  ' 

" '  Just  over,'  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  choking  the  last  boy 
in  her  hurry,  and  tappmg  the  crown  of  his  head  with 
the  wooden  spoon  to  restore  him.  '  Here,  you  Smike  ! 
take  away  now.     Look  sharp  ! ' 

"  Smike  shuffled  out  with  the  basin;  and  Mrs.  Squeers, 
having  called  up  a  little  boy  with  a  curly  head,  and 
wiped  her  hands  upon  it,  hurried  out  after  him  into  a 
species  of  wash-house,  where  there  was  a  small  fire,  and 
a  large  kettle,  together  with  a  number  of  little  wooden 
bowls  which  were  arranged  upon  a  board. 

"  Into  these  bowls,  Mrs.  Squeers,  assisted  by  the  hun- 
gry servant,  poured  a  brown  composition,  which  looked 
like  diluted  pincushions  without  the  covers,  and  was 
called  porridge.  A  minute  wedge  of  brown  bread  was 
inserted  in  each  bowl ;  and,  when  they  had  eaten  their 
porridge  by  means  of  the  bread,  the  boys  ate  the  bread 
itself,  and  had  finished  their  breakfast :  whereupon  Mr. 
Squeers  said,  in  a  solemn  voice,  '  For  what  we  have  re- 
ceived, may  the  Lord  make  us  truly  thankful ! '  —  and 
went  away  to  his  own. 

"  Nicholas  distended  his  stomach  with  a  bowl  of  por- 
ridge, for  much  the  same  reason  which  induces  some 
savages  to  swallow  earth,  —  lest  they  should  be  incon- 
veniently hungry  Avhen  there  is  nothing  to  eat.  Having 
further  disposed  of  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  allotted 


12J:  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

to  him  ill  virtue  of  his  office,  he  sat  himself  down  to 
wait  for  school-time. 

"  He  could  not  but  observe  how  silent  and  sad  the 
boj-s  all  seemed  to  be.  There  was  none  of  the  noise 
and  clamor  of  a  school-room ;  none  of  its  boisterous 
play  or  hearty  mirth.  The  children  sat  crouching  and 
shivering  together,  and  seemed  to  lack  the  spirit  to  move 
about.  The  only  pupil  who  evinced  the  shghtest  ten- 
dency towards  locomotion  or  playfulness  was  Master 
Squeers ;  and,  as  his  chief  amusement  was  to  tread  upon 
the  other  boys'  toes  in  his  new  boots,  his  flow  of  s^Dirits 
was  rather  disagreeable  than  otherwise. 

"After  some  half-hour's  delay,  Mr.  Squeers  re-ap- 
peared ;  and  the  boys  took  their  places  and  their  books, 
of  which  latter  commodity  the  average  might  be  about 
one  to  eight  learners.  A  few  minutes  having  elapsed, 
during  which  J\Ir.  Squeers  looked  very  profound,  as  if 
he  had  a  perfect  apprehension  of  what  was  inside  all  the 
books,  and  could  say  every  word  of  their  contents  by 
heart  if  he  only  chose  to  take  the  trouble,  that  gentle- 
man called  up  the  first  class. 

"  Obedient  to  this  summons,  there  ranged  themselves 
in  fi'ont  of  the  schoolmaster's  desk  half  a  dozen  scare- 
crows, out  at  knees  and  elbows  ;  one  of  whom  placed  a 
torn  and  filthy  book  beneath  his  learned  eye. 

" '  This  is  the  first  class  in  English  speUing  and  phi- 
losophy, Nickleby,'  said  Squeers,  beckoning  Nicholas  to 
stand  beside   him.     '  AVe'll   get   up   a  Latin   one,  and 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  125 

liand  that  over  to  you.  Now,  then,  where's  the  first 
boy?' 

"  '  Please,  sir,  he's  cleaning  the  back-parlor  window,' 
said  the  temporary  head  of  the  philosophical  class. 

"  '  So  he  is,  to  be  sure,'  rejoined  Squeers.  '  We  go 
upon  the  practical  mode  of  teaching,  Nickleby ;  the 
regular  education  system.  C-1-e-a-n,  clean,  verb  active, 
to  make  bright,  to  scour.  W-i-n,  win,  d-e-r,  der,  winder, 
a  casement.  When  the  boy  knows  this  out  of  book,  he 
goes  and  does  it.  It's  just  the  same  principle  as  the  use 
of  the  globes.     Where's  the  second  boy  ?  ' 

"  '  Please,  sir,  he's  weeding  the  garden,'  replied  a 
small  voice. 

"  '  To  be  sure,'  said  Squeers,  by  no  means  discon- 
certed :  '  so  he  is.  B-o-t,  bot,  t-i-n,  tin,  bottin,  n-e-y, 
ney,  bottinney,  noun  substantive,  a  knowledge  of  plants. 
When  he  has  learned  that  bottinney  means  a  knowledge 
of  plants,  he  goes  and  knows  'em.  That's  our  system, 
Nickleby :  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  ' 

"  '  It's  a  very  useful  one,  at  any  rate,'  answered 
Nicholas. 

"  '  I  believe  you,'  rejoined  Squeers,  not  remarking 
the  emphasis  of  his  usher.  '  Third  boy.  What's  a 
horse  ? ' 

"  '  A  beast,  sir,'  replied  the  boy. 

"  '  So  it  is,'-said  Squeers.     '  Ain't  it,  Nickleby  ?  ' 

"  '  I  believe  there  is  no  doubt  of  that,  sir,'  answered 
Nicholas. 


IJO  LIFE   AND  AVRITINGS   OF 

"  '  Of  course,  there  isn't,'  said  Squeers.  '  A  horse  is 
a  quadruped,  and  quadruped's  Latin  for  beast,  as  every- 
body that's  gone  through  the  grammar  knows ;  or  else 
wliere"s  the  use  of  having  grammars  at  all  ?  ' 

"  '  Where,  indeed  ! '  said  Nicholas  abstractedly. 

"  '  As  you're  perfect  in  that,'  resumed  Squeers,  tiirn- 
in<^  to  the  boy,  '  go  and  look  after  my  horse,  and  rub  him 
down  well,  or  111  rub  you  down.  The  rest  of  the  class 
o-o  and  draw  water  up  till  somebody  tells  you  to  leave 
off;  for  it's  washing-day  to-morrow,  and  they  want  the 
coppers  filled.' 

"  So  saying,  he  dismissed  the  first  class  to  their  ex- 
periments in  practical  philosophy,  and  eyed  Nicholas 
with  a  look,  half- cunning  and  half -doubtful,  as  if  he 
were  not  altogether  certain  what  he  might  think  of  him 
by  this  time. 

" '  That's  the  way  we  do  it,  Nickleby,'  he  said  after  a 
pause. 

"  Nicholas  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  manner  that 
was  scarcely  perceptible,  and  said  he  saw  it  was. 

" '  And  a  very  good  way  it  is  too,'  said  Squeers. 
'  Now,  just  take  them  fourteen  little  boys,  and  hear 
them  some  reading,  because,  you  know,  you  must  begin 
to  be  useful.     Idling  about  here  won't  do.' 

"  Mr.  Squeers  said  this  as  if  it  had  suddenly  occurred 
to  him,  either  that  he  must  not  say  too  tnuch  to  his  as- 
sistant, or  that  his  assistant  did  not  say  enough  to  him 
in  praise  of  the  estaljlishment.     The  children  were  ar- 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  127 

ranged  in  a  semicircle  round  the  new  master ;  and  lie 
was  soon  listening  to  their  dull,  drawling,  hesitating  re- 
cital" of  those  stories  of  engrossing  interest  which  are  to 
be  found  in  the  more  antiquated  spelling-books. 

"  In  this  exciting  occupation  the  morning  lagged 
heavily  on.  At  one  o'clock,  the  boys,  having  previously 
had  their  appetites  thoroughly  taken  away  by  stir-about 
and  potatoes,  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  to  some  hard  salt- 
beef,  of  which  Nicholas  was  graciously  permitted  to 
take  his  portion  to  his  own  solitary  desk  to  eat  it  there 
in  peace.  After  this,  there  was  another  hour  of  crouch- 
ing in  the  school-room,  and  shivering  with  cold ;  and 
then  school  began  again." 

In  connection  with  Nicholas,  the  poor  drudge,  Smike, 
is  always  remembered.  That  he  was  the  cousin  of 
Nicholas  is  afterwards  shown ;  but  neither  of  them 
dreamed  of  the  relationship  while  they  were  together. 
Not  until  Smike  found  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  grave 
did  the  long-hidden  secret  become  revealed.  The  fol- 
lowing is  the  account  of  their  first  conversation  :  — 

"  As  he  was  absorbed  in  these  meditations,  he  all  at 
once  encountered  the  upturned  face  of  Smike,  who  was 
on  his  knees  before  the  stove,  picking  a  few  stray  cin- 
ders from  the  hearth,  and  planting  them  on  the  fire. 
He  had  paused  to  steal  a  look  at  Nicholas,  and,  when  he 
saw  that  he  was  observed,  shrunk  back,  as  if  expecting 
a  blow. 


128  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 

"'You  need  not  fear  me,'  said  Nicliolas  kindly. 
*  Are  you  cold  ? ' 

" '  N-n-o.' 

"  '  You  are  shivering.' 

" '  I  am  not  cold,'  replied  Smike  quickly.  '  I  am 
used  to  it.' 

"  There  was  such  an  obvious  fear  of  giving  offence  in 
his  manner,  and  he  was  such  a  timid,  broken-spirited 
creature,  that  Nicholas  could  not  help  exclaiming, '  Poor 
feUow ! ' 

"  If  he  had  struck  the  drudge,  he  would  have  slunk 
away  Avithout  a  word.     But  now  he  burst  into  tears. 

" '  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear ! '  he  cried,  covering  his  face 
with  his  cracked  and  horny  hands.  '  My  heart  will 
Ijreak.     It  will,  it  will.' 

" '  Hush ! '  said  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  '  Be  a  man !  jou.  are  nearly  one  by  j'ears, 
God  help  you  ! ' 

"  '  By  years  ! '  cried  Smike.  '  Oh,  dear,  dear,  how 
many  of  them  !  How  many  of  them  since  I  was  a  little 
child,  younger  than  any  that  are  here  now  !  Where  are 
Ihoy  all?' 

"  '  Whom  do  you  speak  of  ?  '  inqubed  Nicholas,  wish- 
ing to  rouse  the  poor,  half-witted  creature  to  reason  ; 
'  TeU  me. ' 

" '  My  fi-iends,'  he  replied,  '  mjseli  —  my  —  oh  !  what 
sufferings  mine  have  been  ! ' 

"  '  There  is  always  hope,'  said  Nicholas :  he  knew  not 
what  to  say. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  129 

" '  No,'  rejoined  the  other.  '  No  :  none  for  me.'  Do 
you  remember  the  boy  that  died  here  ?  ' 

"  '  I  was  not  here,  you  know,'  said  Nicholas  gently ; 
'  but  what  of  him  ?  ' 

" '  Why,'  replied  the  youth,  drawing  closer  to  his 
questioner's  side,  '  I  was  with  him  at  night ;  and,  when 
it  was  all  silent,  he  cried  no  more  for  friends  he  wished  to 
come  and  sit  with  him,  but  began  to  see  faces  round  his 
bed  that  came  from  home.  He  said  they  smiled,  and 
talked  to  him  ;  and  he  died,  at  last,  lifting  his  head  to  kiss 
them.     Do  you  hear  !  ' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,'  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"  '  What  faces  will  smile  on  me  when  I  die  ! '  cried 
his  companion,  shivering.  '  Who  will  talk  to  me  in 
those  long  nights  !  They  cannot  come  from  home  :  they 
would  frighten  me,  if  they  did,  for  I  don't  know  what  it 
is,  and  shouldn't  know  them.  Pain  and  fear,  pain  and 
fear,  for  me,  alive  or  dead.     No  hope,  no  hope  ! ' 

"  The  bell  rang  to  bed  ;  and  the  boy,  subsiding  at  the 
sound  into  his  own  listless  state,  crept  away  as  if  anxious 
to  avoid  notice.  It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Nicho- 
las soon  afterwards  —  no,  not  retired  ;  there  was  no  re- 
tirement, there  —  followed  —  to  his  dirty  and  crowded 
dormitory." 

Nicholas  proved  the  friend  of  the  friendless  boy. 
Their  adventures  together  served  to  interest  them  still 
more  deeply  in  each  other ;  and,  when  poor  Smike  passed 


130  LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF 

on  to  the  other  life,  his  faithful  cousin  was  found  near 
him  to  smooth  his  dying  pillow.''  For  Smike's  health, 
the  two  friends  went  into  the  country ;  and  then  jNIr. 
Dickens  says,  — 

"  They  procured  a  humble  lodging  in  a  small  farm- 
house, surrounded  by  meadows,  where  Nicholas  had 
often  revelled,  when  a  child,  with  a  troop  of  merry 
schoolfellows  ;  and  here  they  took  up  their  rest. 

"  At  first,  Smike  was  strong  enough  to  walk  about, 
for  short  distances  at  a  time,  with  no  other  support  or 
aid  than  that  which  Nicholas  could  afford  him.  At  this 
time,  nothing  appeared  to  interest  him  so  much  as  visit- 
ing those  places  which  had  been  most  familiar  to  his 
friend  in  bj'gone  days.  Yielding  to  this  fancy,  and 
pleased  to  find  that  its  indulgence  beguiled  the  sick  boy 
of  many  tedious  hours,  and  never  failed  to  afford  him 
matter  for  thought  and  conversation  afterwards,  Nicho- 
las made  such  spots  the  scenes  of  their  daily  rambles ; 
driving  him  from  place  to  place  in  a  little  ponj'-chair, 
and  supporting  him  on  his  arm  while  they  walked  slowly 
among  these  old  haunts,  or  lingered  in  the  sunlight  to 
take  long  parting  looks  of  those  which  were  most  quiet 
and  beautiful. 

"  It  was  on  such  occasions  as  these,  that  Nicholas, 
yielding  almost  unconsciously  to  the  interest  of  old 
associations,  would  point  out  some  tree  that  he  had 
climbed  a  hundi-ed  times  to  peep  at  the  young  birds 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  131 

iu  their  nest,  and  the  branch  from  which  he  used  to 
shout  to  Uttle  Kate,  who  stood  below,  terrified  at  the 
height  he  had  gained,  and  yet  urging  him  higlier  still 
b}^  the  intensity  of  her  admiration.  There  was  the  old 
house,  too,  which  they  would  pass  every  day,  looking 
up  at  the  tiny  window  through  which  the  sun  used  to 
stream  in,  and  wake  him  on  the  summer  mornings 
(they  were  all  siunmer  mornings  then)  ;  and  climbing 
up  the  garden-wall,  and  looking  over,  Nicholas  could  see 
the  very  rose-bush  which  had  come,  a  present  to  Kate, 
from  some  little  lover,  and  she  had  planted  with  her 
own  hands.  There  were  the  hedgerows  where  the 
brother  and  sister  had  often  gathered  wild-flowers  to- 
gether, and  the  green  fields  and  shady  paths  where  they 
had  often  straj^ed.  There  was  not  a  lane  or  brook  or 
copse  or  cottage  near,  with  which  some  childish  event 
was  not  intwined ;  and  back  it  came  upon  the  mind 
(as  events  of  childhood  do),  nothing  in  itself,  —  perhaps 
a  word,  a  laugh,  a  look,  some  slight  distress,  a  passing 
thought  or  fear,  —  and  j^et  more  strongly  and  distinctly 
marked,  and  better  remembered,  than  the  hardest  trials 
or  severest  sorrows  of  a  year  ago. 

"  One  of  these  expeditions  led  them  through  the 
churchyard  where  was  his  father's  grave.  '  Even  here,' 
said  Nicholas  softly,  '  we  used  to  loiter  before  we  knew 
what  death  was,  and  when  we  little  thought  whose 
ashes  would  rest  beneath,  and,  wondering  at  the 
silence,  sit  down  to  rest,  and  speak  below  our  breath. 


132  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

Once  Kate  was  lost;  and,  after  an  hour  of  fruitless 
search,  they  found  her  fast  asleep  under  that  tree  which 
shades  mj  father's  grave.  He  was  very  fond  of  her,  and 
said  when  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms,  still  sleeping,  that, 
whenever  he  died,  he  would  wish  to  be  buried  where 
his  dear  little  child  had  laid  her  head.  You  see  his  wish 
was  not  forgotten.' 

"  Nothing  more  passed  at  the  time  ;  but  that  night, 
as  Nicholas  sat  beside  his  bed,  Smike  started  from  what 
had  seemed  to  be  a  slumber,  and,  laying  his  hand  in  his, 
prayed,  as  the  tears  coursed  down  his  face,  that  he  would 
make  him  one  solemn  promise. 

"  '  What  is  that  ?  '  said  Nicholas  kindly.  '  If  I  can 
redeem  it,  or  hope  to  do  so,  you  know  I  will.' 

"  '  I  am  sure  you  will,'  was  the  reply.  '  Promise  me, 
that,  when  I  die,  I  shall  be  buried  near  —  as  near  as 
they  can  make  my  grave  —  to  the  tree  we  saw  to-da}'.' 

"  Nicholas  gave  the  promise.  He  had  few  words  to 
give  it  in  ;  but  they  were  solemn  and  earnest.  His  poor 
friend  kept  his  hand  in  his,  and  turned  as  if  to  sleep. 
But  there  were  stifled  sobs ;  and  the  hand  was  pressed 
more  than  once  or  twice  or  thrice  before  lie  sank  to 
rest,  and  slowly  loosed  his  hold. 

"  In  a  fortnight's  time,  he  became  too  ill  to  move 
about.  Once  or  twice,  Nicholas  drove  him  out,  propped 
up  Avith  pillows  ;  Ijut  the  motion  of  the  chaise  was 
painful  to  him,  and  brought  on  fits  of  fainting,  which, 
in  his  weakened  state,  were  dangerous.     There  was  an 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  133 

old  couch  in  the  house,  which  was  his  favorite  resting- 
place  by  day :  when  the  sun  shone,  and  the  weather 
was  warm,  Nicholas  had  this  wheeled  into  a  little  or- 
chard which  was  close  at  hand ;  and  his  charge  being 
well  wrapped  up,  and  carried  out  to  it,  they  used  to  sit 
there  sometimes  for  hours  together. 

"  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  a  circumstance 
took  place,  which'  Nicholas,  at  the  time,  thoroughly  be- 
lieved to  be  the  mere  delusion  of  an  imagination  affected 
by  disease,  but  which  he  had  afterwards  too  good  reason 
to  know  was  of  real  and  actual  occurrence. 

"  He  had  brought  Smike  out  in  his  arms  —  poor  fel- 
low !  a  child  might  have  carried  him  then  —  to  see  the 
sunset,  and,  having  arranged  his  couch,  had  taken  his 
seat  beside  it.  He  had  been  watching  the  whole  of  the 
night  before,  and,  being  greatly  fatigued  both  in  mind 
and  body,  gradually  fell  asleep. 

"  He  could  not  have  closed  his  eyes  five  minutes, 
when  he  was  awakened  by  a  scream,  and,  starting  up  in 
that  kind  of  terror  which  affects  a  person  suddenly 
roused,  saw,  to  his  great  astonishment,  that  his  charge 
had  struggled  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  with  eyes  al- 
most starting  from  their  sockets,  cold  dew  standing  on 
his  forehead,  and,  in  a  fit  of  trembling  which  quite  con- 
vulsed his  frame,  was  calling  to  him  for  help. 

"  '  Good  heaven  !  what  is  this  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  bend- 
ing over  him.     "  Be  calm  :  you  have  been  dreaming." 

" '  No,  no,  no  ! '  cried  Smike,  clinging  to  him.    '  Hold 


134  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

me  tight.  Don't  let  me  go.  There,  there!  Behind 
the  tree ! 

"Nicholas  followed  his  eyes,  which  were  directed 
to  some  distance  behind  the  chair  from  which  he  him- 
self had  just  risen.     But  there  was  nothing  there. 

"  '  This  is  nothing  but  your  fancy,'  he  said,  as  he 
strove  to  compose  him :   '  nothing  else  indeed.' 

"  '  I  know  better.  I  saw  as  plain  £ts  I  see  now,'  was 
the  answer.  '  Oh,  say  you'll  keep  me  with  you  !  Swear 
you  won't  leave  me,  for  an  instant ! '  ^ 

"  '  Do  I  ever  leave  you  ?  '  returned  Nicholas.  '  Lie 
down  again :  there  !  You  see  I'm  here.  Now,  tell  me, 
what  was  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Do  you  remember,'  said  Smike  in  a  low  voice,  and 
glancing  fearfully  round,  —  '  do  you  remember  my  telling 
3'ou  of  the  man  who  first  took  me  to  the  school  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  surely.' 

" '  I  raised  my  eyes,  just  now,  towards  that  tree,  — 
that  one  with  the  thick  trunk,  —  and  there,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  me,  he  stood ! ' 

" '  Only  reflect  for  one  moment,'  said  Nicholas. 
'  Granting,  for  an  instant,  that  it's  likely  he  is  alive  and 
wandermg  about  a  lonely  place  like  this,  so  far  re- 
moved from  the  public  road,  do  you  think,  that,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  you  could  possibly  know  that  man 
again  ?  ' 

"  '  Anywhere,  —  in  any  dress,'  returned  Smike  ;  '  but, 
just  now,  he  stood  leaning  upon  his  stick  and  looking 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  135 

at  me,  exactly  as  I  told  3-011  I  remembered  him.  He 
was  dusty  v/ith  walking,  and  poorly  dressed,  —  I  think 
his  clothes  were  ragged ;  but,  directly  I  saw  him,  the 
wet  night,  his  face  when  he  left  me,  the  parlor  I  was 
left  in,  the  people  who  were  there,  —  all  seemed  to  come 
back  together.  When  he  laiew  I  saw  him,  he  looked 
frightened ;  for  he  started,  and  shrank  away.  I  have 
thought  of  him  by  day,  and  dreamt  of  him  by  night. 
He  looked  in  my  sleep  when  I  was  quite  a  little  child, 
and  has  looked  in  my  sleep  ever  since,  as  he  did  just  now." 
"  Nicholas  endeavored,  by  every  persuasion  and  argu- 
ment he  could  think  of,  to  convince  the  terrified  creature 
that  his  imagination  had  deceived  him,  and  that  this 
close  resemblance  between  the  creation  of  his  dreams 
and  the  man  he  supposed  he  had  seen  was  a  proof  of  it ; 
but  all  in  vain.  When  he  could  persuade  him  to  remain, 
for  a  few  moments,  in  the  care  of  the  people  to  whom 
the  house  belonged,  he  instituted  a  strict  inquiry  whether 
any  stranger  had  been  seen,  and  searched,  himself,  behind 
the  tree,  and  through  the  orchard,  and  upon  the  land 
immediately  adjoining,  and  in  every  place  near,  where 
it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  lie  concealed ;  but  all  in 
vain.  Satisfied  that  he  was  right  in  his  original  con- 
jecture, he  applied  himself  to  calming  the  fears  of 
Smike :  which,  after  some  time,  he  partially  succeeded 
in  doing,  though  not  in  removing  the  impression  upon 
his  mind  ;  for  he  still  declared,  again  and  again,  in  the 
most  solemn  and  fervid  manner,  that  he  had  positively 


136  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

seen  Avliat  he  had  described,  and  that  nothing   could 
ever  remove  his  conviction  of  its  reality. 

"  And  noAv  Nicholas  began  to  see  that  hope  was  gone, 
and  that  uj^on  the  partner  of  his  povert}^  and  the  sharer 
of  his  better  fortune  the  world  was  closing  fast.  There 
was  httle  pain,  little  uneasiness  ;  but  there  was  no  rally- 
ing, no  effort,  no  struggle  for  life.  He  was  worn  and 
wasted  to  the  last  degree  ;  his  voice  had  sunk  so  low 
that  he  could  scarce  be  heard  to  speak ;  nature  was 
thoroughly  exhausted,  and  he  had  lain  him  down  to  die. 

"  On  a  fine,  mild,  autumn  day,  when  all  was  tranquil 
and  at  peace,  when  the  soft,  sweet  air  crept  in  at  the  open 
window  of  the  quiet  room,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard 
but  the  gentle  rustling  of  the  leaves,  Nicholas  sat  in 
his  old  place  by  the  bedside,  and  knew  that  the  time  was  ' 
nearly  come.  So  very  still  it  was,  that,  every  now  and 
then,  he  bent  down  his  ear  to  listen  for  the  breathing  of 
him  who  lay  asleep,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  life  was 
still  there,  and  that  he  had  not  fallen  into  that  deep 
slumber  from  which  on  earth  there  is  no  waking. 

"  While  he  was  thus  employed,  the  closed  eyes  opened, 
and  on  the  pale  face  there  came  a  placid  smile. 

"  '  That's  well,'  said  Nicholas.  '  The  sleep"  has  done 
you  good.' 

"  '  I  liave  had  such  pleasant  dreams ! '  was  the  answer, 
—  "  such  pleasant,  happy  dreams  ! ' 

'"Of  what?  '  said  Nicholas. 

''  The  dying  boy  turned  towards  him,  and,  putting  his 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  137 

arm  about  his  neck,  made  answer,  '  I  shall  soon  be 
there  ! ' 

"  After  a  short  silence  he  spoke  again. 

"  '  I  am  not  afraid  to  die,'  he  said :  '  I  am  quite  con- 
tented. I  almost  think,  that,  if  I  could  rise  from  this 
bed  quite  well,  I  would  not  wish  to  do  so  now.  You 
have  so  often  told  me  we  shall  meet  again, —  so  very 
often,  lately,  —  and  now  I  feel  the  truth  of  that  so 
strongly,  that  I  can  even  bear  to  part  from  you.' 

"  The  trembling  voice  and  tearful  eye,  and  the  closer 
grasp  of  the  arm,  which  accompanied  these  latter  words, 
showed  how  they  filled  the  speaker's  heart ;  nor  were 
there  wanting  indications  of  how  deeply  they  had 
touched  the  heart  of  him  to  whom  they  were  ad- 
dressed. 

"  '  You  say  well,'  returned  Nicholas  at  length,  '  and 
comfort  me  very  much,  dear  fellow.  Let  me  hear  you 
say  you  are  happy,  if  you  can.' 

" '  You  must  tell  me  something  first.  I  should  not 
have  a  secret  from  you.  You  will  not  blame  me  at  a 
time  like  this,  I  know." 

"  '  I  blame  you  ! '  exclaimed  Nicholas. 

"  '  I  am  sure  you  will  not.  You  asked  me  why  I  was 
so  changed,  and  —  and  sat  so  much  alone.  Shall  I  tell 
you  why  ? ' 

"  '  Not  if  it  pains  you,'  said  Nicholas.  '  I  only  asked, 
that  I  might  make  you  happier  if  I  could.' 

" '  I  know.     I  felt  that  at  the  time.'     He  drew  his 


138  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

fi-icnd  closer  to  hiin.  '  You  will  forgive  me :  I  could  not 
help  it ;  but,  tliougli  I  would  have  died  to  make  her 
happy,  it  broke  my  heart  to  see  —  I  know  he  loves  her 
dearly  —  oh  !  who  could  find  that  out  so  soon  as  I  ?  ' 

"  The  words  which  followed  were  feebly  and  faintly 
uttered,  and  broken  by  long  pauses ;  but  from  them 
Nicholas  learned,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  dying  boy, 
with  all  the  ardor  of  a  nature  concentrated  on  one 
absorbing,  hopeless,  secret  passion,  loved  his  sister 
Kate. 

"  He  had  procured  a  lock  of  her  hair,  which  hung  at 
his  breast,  folded  in  one  or  two  slight  ribbons  she  had 
worn.  He  prayed,  that,  when  he  was  dead,  Nicholas 
would  take  it  off,  so  that  no  eyes  but  his  might  see  it, 
and  that,  when  he  was  laid  in  his  coffin  and  about  to  be 
placed  in  the  earth,  he  would  hang  it  round  his  neck 
again,  that  it  might  rest  with  him  in  the  grave. 

"  Upon  his  knees,  Nicholas  gave  him  this  pledge,  and 
promised  again  that  he  should  rest  in  the  spot  he  had 
pointed  out.  They  embraced,  and  kissed  each  other  on 
the  cheek. 

"  '  Now,'  he  murmured,  '  I  am  happy.' 

"  He  fell  into  a  light  slumber,  and,  waking,  smiled  as 
before :  then  spoke  of  beautiful  gardens,  which  he  said 
stretched  out  before  him,  and  were  filled  with  figures 
of  men,  women,  and  many  children,  all  with  light  upon 
their  faces  ;  then  whispered  thdt  it  was  Eden ;  and  so 
died." 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  139 

From  these  extracts  it  may  be  seen,  that,  as  a  writer 
in  "  The  Edinburgh  Review  "  says,  — 

"  There  is  no  misanthropy  in  his  satire,  and  no  coarse- 
ness in  his  descriptions,  —  a  merit  enhanced  by  the  na- 
ture of  his  subjects.  His  works  are  cliiefly  pictures  of 
humble  life,  —  frequently  of  the  humblest.  The  reader 
is  led  through  scenes  of  poverty  and  crime,  and  all  the 
characters  are  made  to  discourse  in  the  appropriate  lan- 
guage of  their  respective  classes ;  and  yet  we  recollect 
no  passage  which  ought  to  cause  pain  to  the  most  sensi- 
tive delicacy,  if  read  aloud  in  female  society.  We  have 
said  that  his  satire  was  not  misanthropic.  This  is  emi- 
nently true.  One  of  the  qualities  we  the  most  admire 
in  him  is  his  comprehensive  spirit  of  humanity.  The 
tendency  of  his  writings  is  to  make  us  practically  be- 
nevolent ;  to  excite  our  sympathy  in  behalf  of  the 
aggrieved  and  suffering  in  all  classes,  and  especially 
in  those  who  are  most  removed  from  observation.  He 
especially  directs  our  attention  to  the  helpless  victims 
of  untoward  circumstances  or  a  vicious  system,  —  to  the 
imprisoned  debtor,  the  orphan  pauper,  the  parish  ap- 
prentice, the  juvenile  criminal,  and  to  the  tyranu}^, 
which,  under  the  combination  of  parental  neglect  with 
the  mercenary  brutality  of  a  pedagogue,  may  be  exer- 
cised with  impunity  in  schools.  His  humanity  is  plain, 
practical,  and  manly.  It  is  quite  untainted  with  senti- 
me-ntalitv.     There  is  no  monkish  wailing  for  ideal  dis- 


140  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS. 

tresses ;  no  morbid  exaggeration  of  the  evils  incident  to 
our  lot ;  no  disposition  to  excite  unavailing  discontent, 
or  to  turn  our  attention  from  remedial  grievances  to 
those  which  do  not  admit  a  remedy.  Though  he  ap- 
peals much  to  our  feelings,  we  can  detect  no  instance  in 
which  he  has  employed  the  verbiage  of  a  spurious  phi- 
lanthropy. He  is  equally  exempt  from  the  meretricious 
cant  of  a  spurious  philosophy."  * 

*  Edinburgh  Review,  Ixviii.  77,  October,  1838. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


OTHER    NOVELS. 

Master  Humphrey's  Clock.  —  London  Yeara  Ago.  —  Country  Picture.  —  Barnaby 
Rudge.  — Old  Curiosity  Shop.— Death  of  Little  Nell.  — Mr.  Dickens's  Speech.— 
Funeral  of  Little  Nell.  —  Landor's  Testimony.  —  Child  Pictures  from  Dickens. — 
Memoirs  of  Grimaldi. 

"  A  blessing  on  the  printer's  art  I 
Books  are  the  Mentors  of  the  heart." 

Mrs.  Hale. 

"Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end."  —  Eccles.  xii.  12. 


HE  busy  pen  moved  on.  After  "  Nicholas 
Nickleby  "  came  a  series  of  tales,  or  nov- 
els, published  in  weekly  numbers,  under 
the  general  title  of  "  Master  Humphrey's 
Clock."  In  this  series,  "  Barnaby  Rudge  " 
and  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  "  appeared.  It  was  in 
April,  1840,  that  the  first  number  of  this  serial  was 
written.  The  thirty  years  which  have  since  passed  have 
only  added  to  the  author's  reputation,  which  was  even 
then  so  far  established,  that,  of  the  three-penny  num- 
bers containing  his  "Master  Humphrey's  Clock,"  there 
were  no  less  than  forty  thousand  copies  when  first  is- 
sued ;    and  to  this  were  soon  added  twenty  thousand 

141 


WJ  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS    OF 

more.  Yet  the  work,  as  first  tlesignecl,  was  not  a  de- 
cided success.  It  failed  to  meet  the  demand  of  the 
imblie,  which  desired  the  long  stories,  and  not  fj'ag- 
ments.  Therefore  Mr.  Dickens  wrote  "  The  Old  Curi- 
osity Shop,"  and  "  Barnaby  Rudge  ; "  Avhich  are  novels 
purely,  and  not,  like  his  previous  stories,  righteous  as- 
saults on  abuses  and  social  wrongs.  The  latter,  as  one 
biographer  says,  "  is  one  of  his  two  historical  novels, 
and  shows  a  respectable  degree  of  power  in  that  depart- 
ment of  fiction.  But  Mr.  Dickens's  peculiar  gift,  and 
his  best  gift,  was  not  the  accumulation  and  delineation 
of  such  items  as  paint  a  past  period,  —  costume,  anti- 
quarian lexicography,  archaeology  generally.  These  are 
transitory,  and  are  already  dead.  There  have  been  great 
masters  in  the  art  of  grouping  and  painting  them,  no 
doubt.  But  the  art  of  this  master  was  in  painting  the 
qualities  of  humanity,  not  of  its  costume ;  the  feelings, 
sentiments,  and  passions,  that  are  everlasting  as  man. 
It  might,  therefore,  have  been  expected  that  this  part 
of  the  work  would  usurp  upon  the  other  in  the  compo- 
sition of  historical  fiction  ;  and  so  it  was  accordingly. 
The  ignoblenesses  of  Miggs  and  Tappertit ;  the  brutali- 
ties of  Dennis  and  Hugh  ;  the  gross,  stolid  obstinacy  of 
old  Willctts  ;  the  steadfast  goodness  of  Varden ;  the 
In-ight,  loving  sweetness  of  Dolly;  the  misery  of  the 
Widow  Rudge  ;  tlie  fantastic,  innocent  vagaries  of  her 
crack-l)r:iiiu'd  darling;  and  we  ma}^  perhaps,  add  to 
this  catalogue  of  human  qualities  those  which  Grip,  the 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  143 

raven,  had  acquired  from  human  teaching,  —  these  are 
the  staple  of  the  story." 

From  "  Barnaby  Rudge  "  a  few  extracts  may  properly 
here  be  given.  The  first  gives  a  graphic  picture  of  Lon- 
don in  days  gone  by,  wherein  Dickens  says,  — 

"  A  series  of  pictures  representing  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don in  the  night,  even  at  the  comparatively  recent  date 
of  this  tale,  would  present  to  the  eye  something  so  very 
different  in  character  from  the  reality  which  is  witnessed 
in  these  times,  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  the  beholder 
to  recognize  his  most  familiar  walks  in  the  altered  aspect 
of  little  more  than  half  a  century  ago. 

"  They  were,  one  and  all,  from  the  broadest  and  best 
to  the  narrowest  and  least  frequented,  very  dark.  The 
oil  and  cotton  lamps,  though  regularly  trimmed  twice 
or  thrice  in  the  long  winter  nights,  burnt  feebly  at  the 
best ;  and  at  a  late  hour,  when  they  were  unassisted  by 
the  lamps  and  candles  in  the  shops,  cast  but  a  narrow 
track  of  doubtful  light  upon  the  footway,  leaving  the 
projecting  doors  and  house-fronts  in  the  deepest  gloom. 
Many  of  the  courts  and  lanes  were  left  in  total  dark- 
ness ;  those  of  the  meaner  sort,  where  one  glimmering 
light  twinkled  for  a  score  of  houses,  being  favored  in  no 
slight  degree.  Even  in  these  places,  the  inhabitants  had 
often  good  reason  for  extinguishing  their  lamp  as  soon 
as  it  was  lighted  ;  and,  the  watch  being  utterly  ineffi- 


144  LIFE  AND  AYKITINGS  OF 

cieut  and  powerless  to  preA^ent  them,  tliey  did  so  at 
their  pleasure.  Thus,  in  the  lightest  thoroughfares, 
there  was,  at  every  turn,  some  obscure  and  dangerous 
spot  whither  a  thief  might  fly  for  shelter,  and  few  would 
care  to  follow;  and  the  city,  being  belted  round  by 
fields,  green  lanes,  waste  grounds,  and  lonely  roads, 
dividing  it  at  that  time  from  the  suburbs  that  have 
joined  it  since,  escape,  even  where  the  pursuit  Avas  hot, 
was  rendered  easy. 

"  It  is  no  wonder,  tlKit,  with  these  favoring  circum- 
stances in  full  and  constant  operation,  street  robberies, 
often  accompanied  by  cruel  wounds,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  by  loss  of  life,  should  have  been  of  nightly 
occurrence  in  the  very  heart  of  .London,  or  that  quiet 
folks  should  have  had  great  dread  of  traversing  its  streets 
after  the  shops  were  closed.  It  was  not  unusual  for 
those  who  wended  home  alone  at  midnight,  to  keep  the 
middle  of  the  road,  the  better  to  guard  against  surprise 
from  lurking  footpads.  Few  would  venture  to  repair  at 
a  late  hour  to  Kentish  Town  or  Ilampstead,  or  even  to 
Kensington  or  Chelsea,  unarmed  and  unattended ;  while 
he  who  had  been  loudest  and  most  valiant  at  the  sup- 
per-table or  the  tavern,  and  had  but  a  mile  or  so  to  go, 
was  glad  to  fee  a  link-boy  to  escort  him  home. 

"  There  were  many  other  characteristics  —  not  quite 
so  disagreeable  —  about  the  thoroughfares  of  London 
then,  Avith  Avhich  they  had  been  long  familiar.  Some 
of  the  shops,  especially  those  to  the  castAvard  of  Temple 


CHAELES    DICKENS.  145 

Bar,  still  adhered  to  tlie  old  practice  of  lianging  out  a 
sign  ;  and  the  creaking  and  swinging  of  these  boards  in 
their  iron  frames,  on  windy  nights,  formed  a  strange  and 
mournful  concert  for  the  ears  of  those  who  lay  awake  in 
bed,  or  hurried  through  the  streets.  Long  stands  of 
hackney- chairs,  and  groups  of  chamnen,  —  compared 
with  whom  the  coachmen  of  our  day  are  gentle  and 
polite,  —  obstructed  the  way,  and  filled  the  air  with 
clamor;  night-cellars,  indicated  by  a  little  stream  of 
light  crossing  the  pavement,  and  stretching  out  half- 
way into  the  road,  and  by  the  stifled  roar  of  voices  from 
below*,  yawned  for  the  reception  and  entertainment  of 
the  most  abandoned  of  both  sexes  ;  under  every  shed 
and  bulk  small  groups  of  link-boys  gamed  away  the 
earnings  of  the  day ;  or  one,  more  weary  than  the  rest, 
gave  way  to  sleep,  and  let  the  fragment  of  his  torch  fall 
hissing  on  the  puddled  ground. 

"  Then  there  was  the  watch,  with  staff  and  lantern, 
crying  the  hour,  and  the  kind  of  weather;  and  those 
who  woke^  up  at  his  voice,  and  turned  them  round  in 
bed,  were  glad  to  hear  it  rained,  or  snowed,  or  blew,  or 
froze,  for  very  comfort's  sake.  The  solitary  passenger 
was  startled  by  the  chairmen's  cry  of  '  By  your  leave, 
there  ! '  as  two  came  trotting  past  him  with  their  empty 
vehicle,  —  carried  backwards  to  show  its  being  disen- 
gaged, —  and  hiu'ried  to  the  nearest  stand.  Many  a 
private  chair,  too,  enclosing  some  fine  lady,  monstrously 
hooped  and  furbelowcd,  and  preceded  by  running  foot- 

10 


14G  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 

men  bearing  flambeaux,  —  for  which  extinguishers  are 
yet  suspended  before  the  doors  of  a  few  houses  of  the 
better  sort,  —  made  the  way  gay  and  light  as  it  danced 
along,  and  darker  and  more  dismal  when  it  had  passed. 
It  was  not  unusual  for  these  running  gentry,  who  carried 
it  with  a  very  high  hand,  to  quarrel  in  the  servants'  hall 
Avhile  waiting  for  their  masters  and  mistresses  ;  and,  fall- 
in":  to  blows  either  there  or  in  the  street  without,  to 
strew  the  place  of  skirmish  with  hair -powder,  frag- 
ments of  bag-wigs,  and  scattered  nosegays.  Gaming,  the 
vice  which  ran  so  high  among  all  classes  (the  fashion 
being  of  course  set  by  the  upper),  was  generally  the 
cause  of  these  disputes  ;  for  cards  and  dice  were  as 
openly  used,  and  worked  as  much  mischief,  and  yielded 
as  much  excitement,  below  stairs  as  aboj^e.  While  inci- 
dents like  these,  arising  out  of  drums  and  masquerades 
and  parties  at  quadrille,  were  passing  at  the  west  end 
of  the  town,  heavy  stage-coaches,  and  scarce  heavier 
wagons,  were  lumbering  slowly  towards  the  city,  the 
coachmen,  guard,  and  passengers  armed  to  the  teeth ; 
and  the  coach  —  a  day  or  so,  perhaps,  behind  its  time, 
but  that  was  nothing  —  despoiled  by  highwaymen,  who 
made  no  scruple  to  attack,  alone  and  single-handed,  a 
whole  caravan  of  goods  and  men,  and  sometimes  shot 
a  passenger  or  two,  and  were  sometimes  shot  themselves, 
just  as  the  case  might  be.  On  tlie  morrow,  rumors  of 
this  new  act  of  daring  on  the  road  yielded  matter  for  a 
few  liours'  conversation  through  the  town  ;  and  a  Public 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  147 

Progress  of  some  fine  gentlemen  (lialf  drunk)  to  Ty- 
burn, dressed  in  the  newest  fashion,  and  damning  the 
ordinary  with  unspeakable  gallantry  and  grace,  fur- 
nished to  the  populace  at  once  a  pleasant  excitement, 
and  a  wholesome  and  profound  example." 

The  next  extract  is  a  country  picture,  and  exhibits 
the  minuteness  of  a  close  observer,  while  it  conveys  re- 
ligious lessons  of  hope  and  comfort,  proving  that  the 
writer  believed  in  the  everlasting  love  of  God. 

In  the  picture  of  the  poor,  weak-minded  Barnaby,  we 
have  a  vivid  sketch  of  one,  who,  witless  himself,  was 
under  the  protection  of  the  Infinitely  Wise  ;  and  it  calls 
to  mind  what  Lucy  Larcom  wrote  of  Larkin  Moore,  — 

"  And  so  lie  wandered  east  and  west, 

And  up  and  down  the  land ; 
But  where  he  paused  for  food  or  rest, 

'Twas  hard  to  understand. 
He  surely  had  one  sheltering  nest,  — 

The  hollow  of  God's  hand." 

Poor  Barnaby  Rudge  and  his  mother  are  thus  de- 
scribed :  — 

"Leaving  the  favored  and  well -received  and  flat- 
tered of  the  world,  —  him  of  the  world  most  worldly, 
who  never  compromised  himself  by  an  ungentlemanly 
action,  and  never  was  guilty  of  a  manly  one,  —  to  lie 
smilingly  asleep ;    for   even   sleep,  working   but   little 


148  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OP 

change  in  his  dissembling  face,  became  with  him  a  piece 
of  cold,  conventional  hypocrisy,  —  we  follow  in  the 
steps  of  two  slow  travellers  on  foot,  making  towards 
Chigwell. 

"  Barnaby  and  his  mother.  Grip  in  their  company,  of 
course. 

"  The  widow,  to  whom  each  painful  mile  seemed 
longer  than  the  last,  toiled  wearily  along  ;  while  Bar- 
naby, yielding  to  every  inconstant  impulse,  fluttered 
here  and  there,  now  leaving  her  far  behind,  now  linger- 
ing far  behind  himself,  now  darting  into  some  by-lane  or 
path,  and  leaving  her  to  pursue  her  way  alone  until  he 
stealthily  emerged  again,  and  came  upon  her  with  a  wild 
shout  of  merriment,  as  his  wayward  and  capricious  na- 
ture prompted.  Now  he  would  call  to  her  from  the  top- 
most branch  of  some  high  tree  by  the  roadside  ;  now, 
using  his  tall  staif  as  a  leaping-pole,  come  flying  over 
ditch  or  hedge  or  five-barred  gate  ;  now  run  with  sur- 
prising swiftness  for  a  mile  or  more  on  the  straight  road, 
and,  halting,  sport  upon  a  patch  of  grass  with  Grip  till 
she  came  up.  These  were  his  delights  ;  and  when  his 
patient  mother  heard  his  merry  voice,  or  looked  into  liis 
flushed  and  healthy  face,  she  would  not  have  abated 
thorn  by  one  sad  word  or  murmur,  though  each  had 
been  to  her  a  source  of  suffering  in  the  same  degree  as 
it  was  to  him  of  pleasure. 

"  It  is  something  to  look  upon  enjoyment,  so  that  it 
be  free  and  wild,  and  in  the  face  of  Nature,  though  it  is 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  149 

but  the  enjoyment  of  an  idiot ;  it  is  something  to  know 
that  Heaven  has  left  the  capacity  of  gladness  in  such  a 
creature's  breast ;  it  is  something  to  be  assured,  that, 
however  lightly  men  may  crush  that  faculty  in  their  fel- 
lows, the  great  Creator  of  mankind  imparts  it  even  to 
his  despised  and  slighted  work.  Who  would  not  rather 
see  a  poor  idiot  happy  in  the  sunlight  than  a  wise  man 
pining  in  a  darkened  jail  ? 

"  Ye  men  of  gloom  and  austerity,  who  paint  the  face 
of  Infinite  Benevolence  with  an  eternal  frown,  read  in 
the  everlasting  book  wide  open  to  3'our  view,  the  les- 
son it  would  teach.  Its  pictures  are  not  in  black  and 
sombre  hues,  but  bright  and  glowing  tints ;  its  music, 
save  when  ye  drown  it,  is  not  in  sighs  and  groans, 
but  songs  and  cheerful  sounds.  Listen  to  the  million 
voices  in  the  summer  air,  and  find  one  dismal  as  your 
own.  Remember,  if  ye  can,  the  sense  of  hope  and 
pleasure  which  every  glad  return  of  day  awakens  in  the 
breast  of  all  your  kind  who  have  not  changed  their  na- 
ture ;  and  learn  some  wisdom,  even  from  the  witless, 
when  their  hearts  are  lifted  up,  they  know  not  why,  by 
all  the  mirth  and  happiness  it  brings. 

"  The  widow's  breast  was  full  of  care,  was  laden 
heavily  with  secret  dread  and  sorrow ;  but  her  boy's 
gayety  of  heart  gladdened  her,  and  beguiled  the  long 
journey.  Sometimes  he  would  bid  her  lean  upon  his 
arm,  and  would  keep  beside  her  steadily  for  a  short  dis- 
tance ;  but  it  was  more  his  nature  to  be  rambHng  to  and 


150  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OP 

fro :  and  she  better  liked  to  see  liim  free  and  liappy, 
even  than  to  have  him  near  her,  because  she  loved  him 
better  than  herself. 

"  She  had  quitted  the  place  to  wliich  they  were  trav- 
elling, dii-ectly  after  the  event  which  had  changed  her 
whole  existence,  and'  for  two  and  twenty  years  had 
never  had  courage  to  revisit  it.  It  was  her  native  vil- 
lage. How  many  recollections  crowded  on  her  mind 
when  it  appeared  in  sight ! 

"  Two  and  twenty  years,  —  her  boy's  whole  life  and 
history.  The  last  time  she  looked  back  upon  those 
roofs  among  the  trees,  she  carried  him  in  her  arms, 
an  infant.  How  often  since  that  time  had  she  sat  be- 
side him  night  and  day,  watching  for  the  dawn  of  mind 
that  never  came  I  how  had  she  feared  and  doubted,  and 
yet  hoped,  long  after  conviction  forced  itself  upon  her  ! 
The  little  stratagems  she  had  devised  to  try  him,  the 
little  tokens  he  had  given  in  his  childish  way,  —  not  of 
dulness,  but  of  something  infinitely  worse,  so  ghastly 
and  uuchildlike  in  its  cunning,  —  came  back  as  vividly 
as  if  but  yesterday  had  intervened.  The  room  in  which 
they  used  to  be  ;  the  spot  in  which  his  cradle  stood  ;  he 
old  and  elfin-like  in  face,  but  ever  dear  to  her,  gazing  at 
her  with  a  wild  and  vacant  eye,  and  crooning  some  un- 
couth song  as  she  sat  by  and  rocked  liim,  —  every  cir- 
cumstance of  his  infancy  came  thronging  back ;  and  the 
most  trivial,  perhaps,  the  most  distinctly. 

"His  older  childhood  too  ;  the  strange  imaginings  he 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  151 

had ;  liis  terror  of  certain  senseless  things,  —  familiar 
objects  he  endowed  with  life  ;  the  slow  and  gradual 
breaking-out  of  that  one  horror,  in  which,  before  his 
birth,  his  darkened  intellect  began  ;  how,  in  the  midst 
of  all,  she  had  found  some  hope  and  comfort  in  his  being 
unhke  another  child,  and  had  gone  on  almost  believing 
in  the  slow  development  of  his  mind,  until  he  grew  a 
man,  and  then  his  childhood  was  complete  and  lasting, 
—  one  after  another,  all  these  old  thoughts  sprung  up 
within  her,  strong  after  their  long  slumber,  and  bitterer 
than  ever. 

"  She  took  his  arm ;  and  they  hurried  through  the  vil- 
lage street.  It  was  the  same  as  it  was  wont  to  be  in  old 
times,  yet  different  too,  and  wore  another  air.  The 
change  was  in  herself,  not  it ;  but  she  never  thought  of 
that,  and  wondered  at  its  alteration, —  where  it  lay,  and 
what  it  was. 

"  The  people  all  knew  Barnaby ;  and  the  children  of 
the  place  came  flocking  round  him,  as  she  remem- 
bered to  have  done  with  their  fathers  and  mothers, 
round  some  silly  beggar -man,  when  a  child  herself. 
None  of  them  knew  her.  They  passed  each  well-remem- 
bered house  and  yard  and  homestead,  and,  striking  into 
the  fields,  were  soon  alone  again." 

In  after-time,  Barnaby  and  his  mother  are  described 
as  being  at  home  in  the  country,  where  she  gives  him 
somq,  wholesome  lessons ;  which  he  receives  to  the  best 


152  LIFE  AND  WETTINGS   OF 

of  Ills  ability,  and  which  would  benefit  many  others,  if 
they  would  receive  them. 

"  While  the  worst  passions  of  the  worst  men  were 
thus  working  in  the  dark,  and  the  mantle  of  religion, 
assumed  to  cover  the  ugliest  deformities,  threatened  to 
become  the  shroud  of  all  that  was  good  and  peaceful  in 
society,  a  circumstance  occurred  which  once  more  altered 
the  position  ^f  two  persons  from  whom  this  history  has 
long  been  separated,  and  to  whom  it  must  now  return. 

"  In  a  small  English  country  town,  the  inhabitants  of 
which  supported  themselves  by  the  labor  of  their  hands 
in  plaiting  and  preparing  straw  for  those  who  made 
bonnets  and  other  articles  of  dress  and  ornament  from 
that  material,  —  concealed  under  an  assumed  name,  and, 
living  in  a  quiet  poverty  which  knew  no  change,  no 
pleasures,  and  few  cares  but  that  of  struggling  on  from 
day  to  day  in  the  one  great  toil  for  bread,  —  dwelt  Bar- 
naby  and  his  mother.  Their  poor  cottage  had  known 
no  stranger's  foot  since  the}^  sought  the  shelter  of  its 
roof  five  years  before ;  nor  had  they  in  all  that  time 
held  any  commerce  or  communication  with  the  old  world 
from  which  they  had  fled.  To  labor  in  peace,  and  de- 
vote her  labor  and  her  life  to  her  poor  son,  was  all  the 
widow  sought.  If  happiness  can  be  said  at  any  time  to 
be  the  lot  of  one  on  whom  a  secret  sorrow  preys,  she 
was  happy  now.  Tranquillity,  resignation,  and  her 
strong  love  of  him  wlio  needed  it  so  much,  formed  the 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  153 

small  circle  of  her  quiet  joys  ;  and,  while  that  remained 
unbroken,  she  was  contented. 

"  For  Barnaby  himself,  the  time  which  had  flown  by 
had  passed  him  like  the  wind.  The  daily  suns  of  years 
had  shed  no  brighter  gleam  of  reason  on  his  mind :  no 
dawn  had  broken  on  his  long,  dark  night.  He  would  sit 
sometimes,  often  for  days  together,  on  a  low  seat  by 
the  fire  or  by  the  cottage-door,  busy  at  work  (for  he  had 
learnt  the  art  his  mother  plied),  and  listening  (God  help 
him !)  to  the  tales  she  would  repeat  as  a  lure  to  keep  him 
in  her  sight.  He  had  no  recollection  of  these  little  nar- 
ratives (the  tale  of  yesterday  was  new  upon  the  mor- 
row) ;  but  he  liked  them  at  the  moment,  and,  when  the 
humor  held  him,  would  remain  patiently  within  doors, 
hearing  her  stories  like  a  httle  child,  and  working  cheer- 
fully from  sunrise  until  it  was  too  dark  to  see. 

"  At  other  times,  and  then  their  scanty  earnings 
were  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  them  with  food,  though 
of  the  coarsest  sort,  he  would  wander  abroad  from 
dawn  of  day  until  the  twilight  deepened  into  night. 
Few  in  that  place,  even  of  the  children,  could  be  idle  ; 
and  he  had  no  companions  of  his  own  kind.  Indeed, 
there  were  not  many  who  could  have  kept  up  with  him 
in  his  rambles,  had  there  been  a  legion.  But  there  were 
a  score  of  vagabond  dogs  belonging  to  the  neighbors, 
who  served  his  purpose  quite  as  well.  With  two  or 
three  of  these,  or  sometimes  with  a  full  half-dozen,  bark- 
ing at  his  heels,  he  would  sally  forth  on  some  long  expe- 


154  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS    OF 

dition  that  consumed  the  day;  and  though,  on  their 
return  at  nightfall,  the  dogs  would  come  home  hmping 
and  sore-footed,  and  almost  spent  with  their  fatigue, 
Barnaby  was  up  and  off  again  at  sunrise  with  some  new 
attendants  of  the  same  class,  with  whom  he  would  re- 
turn in  like  manner.  On  all  these  travels,  Grip,  in  his 
little  basket  at  his  master's  back,  was  a  constant  member 
of  the  party ;  and,  when  they  set  off  in  fine  weather  and 
in  high  spirits,  no  dog  barked  louder  than  the  raven. 

"  Their  pleasures  on  these  Excursions  were  simple 
enough.  A  crust  of  bread  and  scrap  of  meat,  with 
water  from  the  brook  or  spring,  sufficed  for  their  repast. 
Barnaby's  enjoyments  were  to  walk  and  run  and  leap 
till  he  was  tired ;  then  to  lie  down  on  the  long  grass,  or 
by  the  growing  corn,  or  in  the  shade  of  some  tall  tree, 
looking  upward  at  the  light  clouds  as  they  floated  over 
the  blue  surface  of  the  sky,  and  listening  to  the  lark  as 
she  poured  out  her  brilliant  song.  There  were  wild- 
ilowers  to  pluck,  —  the  bright-red  poppy,  the  gentle 
harebell,  the  cowslip,  and  the  rose.  There  were  birds 
to  watch,  fish,  ants,  worms ;  hares  or  rabbits,  as  they 
darted  across  the  distant  pathway  in  the  wood,  and  so 
were  gone  ;  millions  of  living  things  to  have  an  interest 
in,  and  lie  in  wait  for,  and  clap  hands  and  shout  in 
memory  of  when  they  had  disappeared.  In  default  of 
these,  or  when  they  wearied,  there  was  the  merry  sun- 
light to  hunt  out,  as  it  crept  in  aslant  through  leaves  and 
Ijoughs  of  trees,  and  hid  far  down  —  deep,  deep  in  hoi- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  155 

low  places  —  like  a  silver  pool,  where  nodding  branches 
seemed  to  bathe  and  sport ;  sweet  scents  of  summer  air 
breathing  over  fields  of  beans  or  clover ;  the  jDcrfume  of 
wet  leaves  or  moss ;  the  life  of  waving  trees,  and 
shadows  always  changing.  When  these  or  any  of  them 
tired,  or,  in  excess  of  pleasing,  tempted  him  to  shut  his 
eyes,  there  was  slumber  in  the  midst  of  all  these  so'ft 
delights,  with  the  gentle  wind  murmuring  like  music  in 
his  ears,  and  every  thing  around  melting  into  one  de- 
licious dream. 

"  Their  hut,  for  it  was  little  more,  stood  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  high- 
road, but  in  a  secluded  place,  where  few  chance  passen- 
gers strayed  at  any  season  of  the  year.  It  had  a  plot 
of  garden-ground  attached,  which  Barnaby,  in  fits  and 
starts  of  working,  trimmed,  and  kept  in  order.  Within 
doors  and  without,  his  mother  labored  for  their  common 
good ;  and  hail,  rain,  snow,  or  sunshine  found  no  differ- 
ence in  her. 

"  Though  so  far  removed  from  the  scenes  of  her  past 
life,  and  with  so  little  thought  or  hope  of  ever  visiting 
them  again,  she  seemed  to  have  a  strange  desire  to  know 
what  happened  in  the  busy  world.  Any  old  newspapers 
or  scrap  of  intelligence  from  London,  she  caught  at  with 
avidity.  The  excitement  it  produced  was  not  of  a  j)leas- 
urable  Idnd,  for  her  manner  at  such  times  expressed  the 
keenest  anxiety  and  dread ;  but  it  never  faded  in  the 
least  degree.     Then,  and  in  stormy  winter  nights,  when 


156  LIFE    AND    WRJ TINGS    OF 

the  -wind  blew  lond  and  strong,  the  old  expression  came 
into  her  face  ;  and  tihc  would  be  seized  with  a  fit  of 
trembling,  like  one  who  had  an  ague.  But  Barnaby 
noted  little  of  this  ;  and,  putting  a  great  constraint  upon 
herself,  she  usually  recovered  her  accustomed  manner 
before  the  change  had  caught  his  observation. 

"  Grip  was  by  no  means  an  idle  or  unprofitable  mem- 
ber of  the  humble  household.  Partly  by  dint  of  Bar- 
naby's  tuition,  and  partly  by  pursuing  a  species  of  self- 
instruction  common  to  his  tribe,  and  exerting  his  powers 
of  observation  to  the  utmost,  he  had  acquired  a  degree 
of  sagacity  which  rendered  him  famous  for  miles  round. 
His  conversational  powers  and  sm^prising  performances 
were  the  universal  theme ;  and  as  many  persons  came 
to  see  the  wonderful  raven,  and  none  left  his  exertions 
unrewarded  (when  he  condescended  to  exhibit,  which 
was  not  always  ;  for  genius  is  capricious),  his  earnings 
formed  an  important  item  in  the  common  stock.  Indeed, 
the  bird  himself  appeared  to  know  his  value  well ;  for, 
though  he  was  perfectly  free  and  unrestrained  in  the 
presence  of  Barnaby  and  his  mother,  he  maintained  in 
public  an  amazing  gravity,  and  never  stooped  to  any 
other  gratuitous  performances  than  biting  the  anldes  of 
vagabond  boys  (an  exercise  in  which  he  much  delighted), 
killing  a  fowl  or  two  occasionall}^  and  swallowing  the 
dinners  of  various  neighboring  dogs,  of  whom  the  bold- 
est held  lum  in  great  awe  and  dread. 

"  Time  had  glided  on  in  this  way,  and  nothing  had 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  157 

happened  to  disturb  or  change  their  mode  of  life,  when, 
one  summer's  night  in  June,  they  were  in  their  little 
garden,  resting  from  the  labors  of  the  day.  The  widow's 
work  was  yet  upon  her  knee,  and  strewn  upon  the  ground 
about  her ;  and  Barnaby  stood  leaning  on  his  spade, 
gazing  at  the  brightness  in  the  west,  and  singing  softly 
to  himself. 

"  '  A  brave  evening,  mother  !  If  we  had,  chinking  in 
our  pockets,  but  a  few  specks  of  that  gold  which  is 
piled  up  yonder  in  the  sky,  we  should  be  rich  for  life.' 

"  '  We  are  better  as  we  are,'  returned  the  widow  with 
a  quiet  smile.  '  Let  us  be  contented,  and  we  do  not 
want  and  need  not  care  to  have  it,  though  it  lay  shining 
at  our  feet.' 

"  '  Ay  ! '  said  Barnab}'-,  resting  with  crossed  arms  on 
his  spade,  and  looking  wistfully  at  the  sunset,  '  that's 
well  enough,  mother ;  but  gold's  a  good  thing  to  have. 
I  wish  that  I  knew  where  to  find  it !  Grip  and  I  could 
do  much  with  gold,  be  sure  of  that.' 

"  '  What  would  you  do  ?  '  she  asked. 

"  '  What  ?  A  world  of  things.  We'd  dress  finely,  — 
you  and  I,  I  mean,  not  Grip, — keep  horses,  dogs,  wear 
bright  colors  and  feathers,  do  no  more  work,  live  deli- 
cately and  at  our  ease.  Oh  !  we'd  find  uses  for  it,  mother, 
and  uses  that  would  do  us  good.  I  would  I  knew  where 
gold  was  buried !     How  hard  I'd  work  to  dig  it  up  ! ' 

"  '  You  do  not  know,'  said  his  mother,  rising  from  her 
seat,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder, '  what  mcin 


158  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

have  done  to  win  it,  and  how  they  have  found,  too  late, 
that  it  glitters  brightest  at  a  distance,  and  turns  quite 
dim  and  dull  when  handled.' 

"  '  Ay,  ay !  so  you  say,  so  you  think,'  he  answered, 
still  looking  eagerly  in  the  same  direction.  '  For  all 
that,  mother,  I  should  like  to  try.' 

"  '  Do  you  not  see,'  she  said,  *  how  red  it  is  ?  Noth- 
ing bears  so  many  stains  of  blood  as  gold.  Avoid  it. 
None  have  such  cause  to  hate  its  name  as  we  have.  Do 
not  so  much  as  think  of  it,  dear  love.  It  has  brought 
such  misery  and  suffering  on  your  head  and  mine  as  few 
have  known,  and  God  grant  few  may  have  to  undergo. 
I  would  rather  we  were  dead,  and  laid  down  in  our 
graves,  than  you  should  ever  come  to  love  it.' 

"  For  a  moment,  Barnaby  withdrew  his  eyes,  and 
looked  at  her  with  w^onder.  Then,  glancing  from  the 
redness  in  the  sky  to  the  mark  upon  his  wrist,  as  if  he 
would  compare  the  two,  he  seemed  about  to  question 
her  with  earnestness,  when  a  new  object  caught  his 
wandering  attention,  and  made  him  quite  forgetful  of 
his  purpose." 

"The  Old  Curiosity  Shop"  brought  to  the  public 
view  that  dear  Little  Nell,*  who  has  henceforth  "a  name 
to  live."  Tlie  first  mention  of  this  sweet  child,  who 
was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  creations  of  Dickens,  is 
in  the  following  form  :  — 

•  A  fine  cast  of  Little  Nell,  in  a  sitting  posture,  may  be  seen  among  tlie  statuary 
at  iLu  Boston  AtLenteum. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  159 

"  One  night,  I  had  roamed  mto  the  city,  and  was 
walking  slowly  on  in  my  usual  way,  musing  upon  a 
great  many  things,  when  I  was  arrested  by  an  inquiry, 
the  purport  of  which  did  not  reach  me,  but  which 
seemed  to  be  addressed  to  myself,  and  was  preferred  in 
a  soft,  sweet  voice,  that  struck  me  very  pleasantly.  I 
turned  hastily  round,  and  found  at  my  elbow  a  pretty 
little  girl,  who  begged  to  be  directed  to  a  certain  street 
at  a  considerable  distance,  and  indeed  in  quite  another 
quarter  of  the  town. 

"  'It  is  a  very  long  way  from  here,'  said  I,  ' my 
child.' 

"  '  I  know  that,  sir,'  she  replied  timidly.  '  I  am  afraid 
it  is  a  very  long  way ;  for  I  came  from  there  to-night.' 

"  'Alone  ?  '  said  I  in  some  surprise. 

" '  Oh,  yes  I  I  don't  mind  that.  But  I  am  a  little 
frightened  now ;  for  I  have  lost  my  road.' 

'"And  what  made  you  ask  it  of  me?  Suppose  I 
should  tell  you  wrong  ?  ' 

" '  I  am  sure  you  will  not  do  that,'  said  the  little 
creature :  '  you  are  such  a  very  old  gentleman,  and  walk 
so  slow  yourself.' 

"  I  cannot  describe  how  much  I  was  impressed  by 
this  appeal,  and  the  energy  with  which  it  was  made, 
which  brought  a  tear  into  the  child's  clear  eye,  and 
made  her  slight  figure  tremble  as  she  looked  up  into  my 
face. 

"  '  Come,'  said  I :  '  I'U  take  you  there.' 


IGO  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  She  put  her  hand  in  mine  as  confidingly  as  if  she 
had  known  me  from  her  cradle,  and  we  trudged  away 
together ;  the  little  creature  accommodating  her  pace  to 
mine,  and  rather  seeming  to  lead  and  take  care  of  me 
than  I  to  be  protecting  her.  I  observed  that  every  now 
and  then  she  stole  a  curious  look  at  my  face,  as  if  to 
make  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  deceiving  her,  and  that 
these  glances  (very  sharp  and  keen  they  were  too) 
seemed  to  increase  her  confidence  at  every  repetition. 

"  For  my  part,  my  curiosity  and  interest  were,  at 
least,  equal  to  the  child's  ;  for  cliild  she  certainly  was, 
although  I  thought  it  probable,  from  what  I  could  make 
out,  that  her  very  small  and  delicate  frame  imparted  a 
peculiar  youthfulness  to  her  appearance.  Though  more 
scantily  attired  than  she  might  have  been,  she  was 
dressed  with  perfect  neatness,  and  betrayed  no  mark 
of  poverty  or  neglect. 

"  '  Who  has  sent  you  so  far  by  yourself  ? '  said  I. 

"  '  Somebody  who  is  very  kind  to  me,  sir.' 

"  '  And  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  ' 

"  '  That  I  must  not  tell,'  said  the  child. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  this  reply, 
which  caused  me  to  look  at  the  little  creature  with  an 
involuntary  exj)ression  of  surprise  ;  for  I  wondered  what 
kind  of  errand  it  might  be  that  occasioned  her  to  be 
prepared  for  questioning.  Her  quick  eye  seemed  to 
read  my  thoughts.  As  it  met  mine,  she  added,  that 
there  was  no  harm  in  what  she  had  been  doing ;  but  it 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  161 

was  a  great  secret,  —  a  secret  which  she  did  not  even 
know  herself. 

"  This  was  said  with  no  appearance  of  cunning  or  de- 
ceit, but  with  an  unsuspicious  frankness  that  bore  the 
impress  of  truth.  She  walked  on  as  before,  growing 
more  familiar  with  me  as  we  proceeded,  and  talking 
cheerfully  by  the  way ;  but  she  said  no  more  about  her 
home,  beyond  remarking  that  we  were  going  quite  a 
new  road,  and  asldng  if  it  were  a  short  one. 

"  While  we  were  thus  engaged,  I  revolved  in  my  mind 
a  hundred  explanations  of  the  riddle,  and  rejected  them 
every  one.  I  really  felt  ashamed  to  take  advantage  of 
the  ingenuousness  or  grateful  feeling  of  the  child  for 
the  purpose  of  gratifying  my  curiosity.  I  love  these 
little  people ;  and  it  is  not  a  slight  thing  when  they  who 
are  so  fresh  from  God  love  us.  As  I  had  felt  pleased, 
at  first,  by  her  confidence,  I  determined  to  deserve  it, 
and  to  do  credit  to  the  nature  which  had  prompted  her 
to  repose  it  in  me. 

"  There  was  no  reason,  however,  why  I  sliould  refrain 

from  seeing  the  person  who  had  inconsiderately  sent  her 

to  so'  great  a  distance  by  night,  and  alone  ;  and  as  it 

was  not   improbable,   that,  if   she   found   herself  near 

home,  she  might  take  farewell  of  me,  and  deprive  me 

of  the  opportunity,  I  avoided  the  most  frequented  ways, 

and  took  the  most  intricate.     Thus  it  was  not  until  we 

arrived  in  the  street  itself  that   she  knew  where  we 

were.     Clapping  her  hands  with  pleasure,  and  running 
11 


102  *     LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

on  before  me  for  a  short  distance,  my  little  acquaintance 
stopped  at  a  door,  and,  remaining  on  the  step  till  I  came 
up,  knocked  at  it  -when  I  joined  her. 

"A  part  of  this  door  was  of  glass,  unprotected  by 
any  shutter,  which  I  did  not  observe  at  first ;  for  all 
was  very  dark  and  silent  within,  and  I  was  anxious  (as 
indeed  the  child  was  also)  for  an  answer  to  her  sum- 
mons. When  she  had  knocked  twice  or  thrice,  there 
was  a  noise  as  if  some  person  were  moving  inside ;  and 
at  length  a  faint  light  appeared  through  the  glass,  which, 
as  it  approached  very  slowl}^,  —  the  bearer  having  to 
make  his  way  through  a  great  many  scattered  articles, 
—  enabled  me  to  see  both  what  kind  of  person  it  was 
who  advanced,  and  what  kind  of  place  it  was  through 
which  he  came. 

"  He  was  a  little  old  man,  with  long  gray  hair,  whose 
face  and  figure,  as  he  held  the  light  above  his  head,  and 
looked  before  him  as  he  approached,  I  could  plainly  see. 
Though  much  altered  by  age,  I  fancied  I  could  recog- 
nize in  his  spare  and  slender  form  something  of  that 
delicate  mould  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  child.  Their 
bright  blue  eyes  were  certainly  ahke ;  but  his  face  was 
so  deepl}'-  furrowed,  and  so  very  full  of  care,  that  here 
all  resemblance  ceased. 

"  The  place,  through  wliich  lie  made  his  way  at  leis- 
ure, was  one  of  those  receptacles  for  old  and  curious 
tilings  which  seem  to  crouch  in  odd  corners  of  this 
town,  and  to  hide  their  musty  treasures  from  the  public 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  163 

eye  in  jealousy  and  distrust.  There  were  suits  of  mail 
standing,  like  ghosts  in  armor,  here  and  there  ;  fantastic 
carvings  brouglit  from  monkish  cloisters ;  rusty  weapons 
of  various  kinds ;  distorted  figures  in  china  and  wood 
and  iron  and  ivory ;  tapestry,  and  strange  furniture  that 
might  have  been  designed  in  dreams.  The  haggard  as- 
pect of  the  little  old  man  was  wonderfully  suited  to  the 
place  :  he  might -have  groped  among  old  churches  and 
tombs  and  deserted  houses,  and  gathered  all  the  spoils 
with  his  own  hands.  There  was  nothing  in  the  whole 
collection  but  was  in  keeping  with  himself;  nothing  that 
looked  older  or  more  worn  than  he. 

"  As  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  surveyed  me 
with  some  astonishment,  which  was  not  diminished 
when  he  looked  from  me  to  my  companion.  The 
door  being  opened,  the  child  addressed  him  as  her 
■  grandfather,  and  told  him  the  little  story  of  our  com- 
panionship. 

"  '  Wh}^,  bless  thee,  child ! '  said  the  old  man,  patting 
her  on  the  head,  '  how  couldst  thou  miss  thy  way  ? 
What  if  I  had  lost  thee,  Nell  ? ' 

" '  I  would  have  found  my  way  back  to  you,  grand- 
father,' said  the  child  boldly :  '  never  fear. ' 

"  The  old  man  Idssed  her ;  then  turned  to  me,  and 
begged  me  to  walk  in.  I  did  so.  The  door  was  closed 
and  locked.  Preceding  me  with  the  light,  he  led  me 
through  the  place  I  had  already  seen  from  without,  into 
a  small  sitting-room  behind,  in  which  was  another  door 


IGt  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OF 

opening  into  a  kind  of  closet,  where  I  saw  a  little  bed 
that  a  fairy  might  have  slept  in,  it  looked  so  very  small, 
and  was  so  prettily  arranged.  The  cliild  took  a  candle, 
and  tripped  into  this  little  room,  leaving  the  old  man  and 
me  together. 

" '  You  must  be  tired,  sir,'  said  he  as  he  placed  a 
cliair  near  the  fire.    '  How  can  I  thank  you  ?  ' 

"  '  By  taking  more  care  of  your  grandchild  another 
time,  my  good  friend,'  I  replied. 

"  '  More  care  ! '  said  the  old  man  in  a  shrill  voice  ; '  more 
care  of  Nelly !  Why,  who  ever  loved  a  child  as  I  love 
Nell?' 

"  He  said  this  with  such  evident  surprise,  that  I  was 
perplexed  what  answer  to  make  ;  the  more  so,  because, 
coupled  with  something  feeble  and  wandering  in  his 
manner,  there  were,  in  his  face,  marks  of  deep  and  anx- 
ious thought,  which  convinced  me  that  he  could  not  be,- 
as  I  had  been  at  first  inclined  to  suppose,  in  a  state  of 
dotage  or  imbecility. 

"  '  I  don't  think  you  consider  '  —  I  began. 

"  '  I  don't  consider  ! '  cried  the  old  man,  interrupting 
me,  — '  I  don't  consider  her !  Ah,  how  little  j^ou  know 
of  the  truth !     Little  Nelly,  Little  Nelly  ! ' 

'-'•It  would  be  impossible  for  any  man  —  I  care  not 
what  his  form  of  speech  might  be  —  to  express  more  af- 
fection tlian  tlie  dealer  in  curiosities  did  in  these  four 
words.  I  waited  for  him  to  speak  again ;  but  he  rested 
his  chin  upon  his  hand,  and,  shaldng  his  head  twice  or 
thrice,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  fire. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  165 

"  While  we  were  sitting  thus,  in  silence,  the  door  of 
the  closet  opened,  and  the  child  returned,  her  light 
brown  hair  hanging  loose  about  her  neck,  and  her  face 
flushed  with  the  haste  she  had  made  to  rejoin  us.  She 
busied  herself  immediately  in  preparing  supper.  While 
she  was  thus  engaged,  I  remarked  that  the  old  man  took 
an  opportunity  of  observing  me  more  closely  than  he 
had  done  yet.  I  was  surprised  to  see,  that,  all  this 
time,  every  thing  was  done  by  this  child,  and  that  there 
appeared  to  be  no  other  2)ersons  but  ourselves  in  the 
house.  I  took  advantage  of  a  moment,  when  she  was 
absent,  to  venture  a  hint  on  this  point,  to  which  the  old 
man  replied  that  there  were  few  grown  persons  as  trust- 
worthy or  as  careful  as  she. 

" '  It  alwaj's  grieves  me,'  I  observed,  roused  by  what 
I  took  to  be  his  selfishness :  '  it  always  grieves  me  to 
contemplate  the  initiation  of  children  into  the  waj's  of 
life  when  they  are  scarcely  more  than  infants.  It 
checks  their  confidence  and  simplicity,  —  two  of  the 
best  qualities  that  Heaven  gives  them,  —  and  demands 
that  they  share  our  sorrows  before  they  are  capable  of 
entering  into  our  enjoyments.' 

"  '  It  will  never  check  hers,'  said  the  old  man,  looldng 
steadily  at  me  :  '  the  springs  are  too  deep.  Besides,  the 
cliildren  of  the  poor  know  but  few  pleasures.  Even  the 
cheap  dehghts  of  childhood  must  be  bought  and  paid 
for.'  " 


1G6  LIFE   AND   WHITINGS    OF 

On  Mr.  Dickens's  first  visit  to  tliis  country,  he  made  a 
speech  at  the  dinner  given  him  in  Boston ;  in  which  he 
thus  alluded  to  Little  Nell :  — 

"  '  There  is  one  other  point  connected  with  the  labors, 
if  I  may  call  them  so,  that  you  hold  in  such  generous 
esteem,  to  which  I  cannot  help  adverting.  I  cannot 
help  expressing  the  delight,  the  more  than  happiness,  it 
was  to  me  to  find  so  strong  an  interest  awakened  on  this 
side  of  the  water  in  favor  of  that  little  heroine  of  mine 
to  whom  your  president  has  made  allusion ;  who  died  in 
her  youth.  I  had  letters  about  tliat  child,  in  England, 
from  the  dwellers  in  log-huts  among  the  morasses  and 
swamps,  and  densest  forests,  and  deep  solitudes  of  the 
Far  West.  Many  a  sturdy  hand  hard  with  the  axe  and 
spade,  and  browned  by  the  summer's  sun,  has  taken  up 
the  pen,  and  written  to  me  a  little  history  of  domestic 
joy  or  sorrow,  always  coupled,  I  am  proud  to  say,  with 
something  of  interest  in  that  little  tale,  or  some  comfort 
or  happiness  derived  from  it ;  and  the  writer  has  alwaj^s 
addressed  me,  not  as  a  writer  of  books  for  sale,  resident 
some  four  or  five  thousand  miles  away,  but  as  a  friend 
to  whom  he  might  freely  unpart  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
Ins  own  fireside.  Many  a  mother — I  could  reckon  them 
now  by  dozens,  not  by  units  —  has  done  the  like  ;  and 
has  told  me  how  she  lost  such  a  child  at  such  a  time,  and 
where  she  hiy  buried,  and  how  good  she  was,  and  how, 
in  this  or  that  respect,  she  resembled  Nell.     I  do  assure 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  1G7 

you  that  no  circumstance  of  my  life  lias  given  me  one- 
hundredth  part  of  the  gratification  I  have  derived  from 
this  source.  I  was  wavering  at  the  time,  whether  or  not 
to  wind  up  my  clock,  and  come  and  see  this  country ; 
and  this  decided  me.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  positive 
duty ;  as  if  I  were  bound  to  pack  up  my  clothes,  and 
come  and  see  my  friends ;  and  even  now  I  have  such  an 
odd  sensation  in  connection  with  these  things,  that  you 
have  no  chance  of  spoiling  me.  I  feel  as  though  we 
were  agreeing  —  as  indeed  we  are,  if  we  substitute  for 
fictitious  characters  the  classes  from  which  they  are 
drawn  —  about  third  parties  in  whom  we  had  a  com- 
mon interest.  At  every  new  act  of  kindness  on  your 
part,  I  say  it  to  myself,  '  That's  for  Oliver ;  I  should  not 
wonder  if  that  was  meant  for  Smike  ;  I  have  no  doubt 
that  it  was  intended  for  Nell ; '  and  so  become  a  much 
happier,  certainly,  but  a  more  sober  and  retiiing  man, 
than  ever  I  was  before.'  " 

Every  reader  of  Dickens  feels  as  if  Little  Nell  was 
almost  a  reality,  and  takes,  therefore,  a  sad  interest  in 
recalling  the  final  scene  of  her  life.  Thus  pathetically 
does  the  author  of  that  sweet  character  depict  the  death 
of  Little  Nell :  — 

"  She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so 
free  from  trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She 
seemed  a  creature  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and 


1G8  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

waiting  for  the  breath  of  life  ;  not  one  who  had  lived, 
and  suffered  death.  Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here 
and  there  some  winter  berries  and  green  leaves,  gath- 
ered in  a  spot  she  had  been  used  to  favor.  '  When  I 
die,  put  near  me  something  that  has  loved  the  light,  and 
had  the  sky  above  it  always.'     These  were  her  words. 

"  She  was  dead !  —  dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell 
was  dead.  Her  little  bird,  a  poor,  slight  tiling  the 
pressure  of  a  finger  would  have  crushed,  was  stirring 
nimbly  in  his  cage  ;  and  the  strong  heart  of  itff  child-mis- 
tress was  mute  and  motionless  forever !  Where  were 
the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferingf ,  and  fatigues  ? 
All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead,  indeed,  in  her;  but  peace 
and  perfect  happiness  were  born,  imaged  in  her  tranquil 
beauty  and  profound  repose. 

"  And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  its 
change.  Yes,  the  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that 
same  sweet  face.  It  had  passed  like  a  dream  through 
the  haunts  of  misery  and  care.  At  the  door  of  the  poor 
schoolmaster  on  the  summer  evening ;  before  the  fur- 
nace-fire upon  the  cold,  wet  night ;  at  the  still  bedside 
of  the  dying  boy,  —  there  had  been  the  same  mild  and 
lovely  look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in  their 
majesty  after  death. 

"  The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  the 
small,  tight  hand  folded  to  his  breast  for  warmth.  It 
was  the  hand  she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last 
smile,  —  the  hand  that  had  led  him  on  through  all  their 


CHAELES    DICKENS.  169 

wanderings.  Ever  and  anon  lie  pressed  it  to  his  lips  ; 
then  hugged  it  to  his  breast  again,  murmuring  that  it 
was  wa^rmer  now  :  and,  as  he  said  it,  he  looked  in  agony 
to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if  imploring  them  to  help 
her. 

"  She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  help. 
The  ancient  rooms  she  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even 
while  her  own  was  waning  fast ;  the  garden  she  had 
tended ;  the  eyes  she  had  gladdened ;  the  noiseless 
haunts  of  many  a  thoughtless  hour ;  the  paths  she  had 
trodden,  as  it  were,  but  yesterday,  —  could  know  her 
no  more. 

" '  It  is  not,'  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down 
to  kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  and  gave  his  tears  free  vent,  — 
'  it  is  not  in  this  world  that  Heaven's  justice  ends. 
Think  what  it  is,  compared  with  the  world  to  which  her 
young  spirit  has  winged  its  early  flight ;  and  say,  if  one 
deliberate  wish,  expressed  in  solemn  tones  above  this 
bed,  could  call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us  would 
utter  it  ? ' 

"  She  had  been  dead  two  days.  They  were  all  about 
her  at  the  time,  knowing  that  the  end  Avas  drawing  on. 
She  died  soon  after  daybreak.  They  had  read  and 
talked  to  her  in  the  earlier  portion  of  the  night ;  but,  as 
the  hours  crept  on,  she  sank  to  sleep.  They  could  tell, 
by  what  she  faintly  uttered  in  her  dreams,  that  they 
were  of  her  journeyings  with  the  old  man.  The}''  were 
of  no  painful  scenes,  but  of  those  who  had  helped  them, 


170  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OP 

aud  used  tliem  kindly ;  for  she  often  said,  '  God  bless 
you  ! '  with  great  fervor. 

"  Waking,  she  never  wandered  in  her  mind  but  once  ; 
and  that  was  at  beautiful  music,  which,  she  said,  was  in 
the  air.  God  knows.  It  may  have  been.  Opening  her 
eyes  at  last  from  a  very  quiet  sleep,  she  begged  that 
they  would  kiss  her  once  again.  That  done,  she  turned 
to  the  old  man,  with  a  lovely  smile  upon  her  face,  such, 
they  said,  as  they  had  never  seen,  and  could  never  for- 
get, and  clung  v/ith  both  arms  about  his  neck.  She 
had  never  murmured  or  complained,  but  with  a  quiet 
mind,  and  a  manner  quite  unaltered,  save  that  she  every 
day  became  more  earnest  and  more  grateful  to  them, 
faded  like  the  light  upon  the  summer's  evening." 

In  its  most  pathetic  and  beautiful  passages,  the  prose 
of  Dickens  runs  easily  and  naturally  into  rhyme  and 
metre,  and  shows  him  to  be  a  jDoet,  no  less  than  a  novel- 
ist, of  a  high  order.  This  tendency  of  his  writing  is 
very  ^avidly  illustrated  by  the  account  of  the  funeral  of 
Little  Nell  in  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop ;  "  which  is  ap- 
pended exactly  as  it  stands  in  the  book,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  three  slight  verbal  alterations :  — 

"  And  now  the  bell  —  the  bell 
She  had  so  often  heard  by  night  and  day, 
And  listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure, 
E'en  as  a  living  voice  — 
Rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her, 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  It 

"  Decrepit  age,  and  vigorous  life, 
And  blooming  youth,  and  helpless  infancy. 

Poured  forth  —  on  crutches,  in  the  pride  of  strength 
And  health,  in  the  full  blush 
Of  promise,  the  mere  dawn  of  life  — 
To  gather  round  her  tomb.     Old  men  were  there. 
Whose  eyes  were  dim, 
And  senses  failing ; 
Grandames,  who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago, 
And  still  been  old  ;  the  deaf,  the  blind,  the  lame, 

The  palsied,  — 
The  living  dead  in  many  shapes  and  forms, — 
To  see  the  closing  of  this  early  grave. 

What  was  the  death  it  would  shut  in 
To  that  which  still  could  crawl  and  keep  above  it ! 
Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now, 

Pure  as  the  new-fallen  snow 
That  covered  it,  whose  day  on  earth 

Had  been  as  fleeting. 
Under  that  porch  where  she  had  sat  when  Heaven 
In  mercy  brought  her  to  that  peaceful  spot. 

She  passed  again  ;   and  the  old  church 
deceived  her  in  its  quiet  shade." 

In  Forster's  "  liife  of  Lanclor,"  light  is  thrown  on  the 
manner  in  Avhich  the  fancy  which  gave  us  Little  Nell 
took  form  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Dickens.  This  is  the 
testimony  of  that  biographer  :  — 

"  When  I  first  visited  Landor  in  Bath,  the  city  was 
only  accessible  by  coach ;  and  no  coach  left  after  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning.      But  these  difficulties  in  the 


172  ■   LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

way  of  intercourse  soon  disappeared ;  and  the  travelling 
that  had  occupied  two  entire  daj^s  took  up  little  more 
than  double  the  same  number  of  hours.  The  first  time 
Mr.  Dickens  went  with  me,  the  railroad  was  open ;  and 
it  had  become  possible  to  leave  in  the  afternoon,  dine 
and  pass  the  evening  with  Landor,  and  breakfast  the 
next  morning  in  London.  Still  vividly  remembered  by 
both  are  such  evenings,  when  a  night's  sleep  pur- 
chased for  us  cheaply  the  pleasure  of  being  present  with 
him  on  his  birthday  ;  and  I  think  it  was  at  the  first 
celebration  of  the  kind,  in  the  first  of  his  Bath  lodgings 
(35  St.  James  Square),  that  the  fancy  which  took  the 
form  of  Little  Nell  in  "  The  Curiosity  Shop "  first 
dawned  on  the  genius  of  its  creator.  No  character  in 
prose-fiction  was  a  greater  favorite  of  Landor.  He 
thought  that  upon  her  Juliet  might  for  a  moment  have 
turned  her  eyes  from  Romeo ;  and  that  Desdemona 
might  have  taken  her  hair-breadth  escapes  to  heart,  so 
interesting  and  pathetic  did  she  seem  to  him  :  and  when, 
some  years  later,  the  circumstance  I  have  named  was  re- 
called to  him,  he  broke  into  one  of  those  whimsical  bursts 
of  comical  extravagance  out  of  whicli  arose  the  fancy  of 
Boythorn.  With  tremendous  emphasis,  he  confirmed  the 
fact,  and  added,  that  he  had  never  in  his  life  regretted 
any  thing  so  much  as  his  having  failed  to  carry  out  an 
intention  he  had  formed  respecting  it ;  for  he  meant  to 
have  purchased  that  house  (35  St.  James  Square),  and 
then  and  there  to  liave  burned  it  to  the  ground,    to 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  173 

the  end  that  no  meaner  association  should  ever  dese- 
crate the  birthphxce  of  NelL  Then  he  wouhl  pause  a 
little,  become  conscious  of  our  sense  of  his  absurdity, 
and  break  into  a  thundering  peal  of  laughter." 

In  America,  the  admiration  of  the  sketches  drawn  of 
children  by  Mr.  Dickens  reached  so  great  a  pitch  of  en- 
thusiasm, that  there  was  a  demand  for  those  pictures  in 
separate  form  ;  and,  accordingly,  a  neat  little  book,  called 
"  Child-Pictures  from  Dickens,"  was  issued  by  his  Bos- 
ton publishers,  well  illustrated ;  and  of  which  he  said 
himself,  — 

*'  These  chapters,  as  being  especially  associated  with 
children,  have  been  selected  from  my  various  books  for 
separate  publication,  under  the  title  appended  to  the 
volume.  .  .  .  The  compilation  is  made  for  American  chil- 
dren, with  my  consent."  They  are  the  stories  of  "  Lit- 
tle Nell,"  "  Paul  and  Florence,"  "  The  Fat  Boy,"  and 
others. 

"  Master  Humphrey's  Clock"  ticked  on  but  a  short  time. 
In  the  introductory  framework  of  the  tales  from  which 
we  have  made  extracts,  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  Sam  Weller 
and  his  father,  was  brought  in,  but  scarcely  successfully. 
Several  small  contributions  to  "  Bentley's  Miscellany  " 
are  not  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Dickens's  collected  works,  as 
too  large  a  sum  was  required  for  permission  to  reprint 
them. 

During   Mr.  Dickens's  connection  with  Bentley,  he 


174  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS. 

compiled  "  IMemoirs  of  Joseph  Grimaldi,"  illustrated  by 
Cruikshank,  from  a  sort  of  autobiography  which  the 
great  clown  had  written,  at  immense  length,  before  his 
death.  It  is  as  good  a  theatrical  biography  as  the  aver- 
age, which  is  not  saying  much,  and  was  with  the  com- 
j)iler  mainly  a  labor  of  love.  It  was  published  in  1840, 
in  two  volumes,  and  shows,  at  least,  that  the  rising 
author  was  not  afraid  of  hard  work. 

"It  is  said,  that  when  Dickens  saw  a  strange  or  odd 
name  on  a  shop-board,  or  in  walldng  through  a  village 
or  country  town,  he  entered  it  in  his  pocket-book,  and 
added  it  to  his  reserve  list.  Then,  runs  the  story,  when 
he  wanted  a  striking  surname  for  a  new  character,  he 
had  but  to  take  the  first  half  of  one  real  name,  and  to 
add  to  it  the  second  half  of  another,  to  produce  the 
exact  effect  upon  the  eye  and  ear  of  the  reader  he 
desired." 


CHAPTER    VII. 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   THE    UNITED    STATES. 


Testimony  of  "The  New-York  Tribune."  — American  Notes  for  General  Circula- 
tion.—Wliolesome  Trutliafora  Nation.  — Slavery. —  Bad  JIauners.  — Allegha- 
nies.  —  Niagara. 

"  There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 
No  dearer  shore ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free : 
The  home,  the  port,  of  liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be 
Till  time  is  o'er." 

PeRCIVAIj. 

"  God  that  made  the  world  .  .  .  hath  made  of  one  blood  all  nations  of  men  for  to 
dwell  on  all  the  face  of  the  earth."—  Acts  xvii.  26. 


ELL  does  "The  New- York  Tribune"  de- 
clare that,  — 


"  It  will  be  the  glory  of  Charles  Dickens, 
when  his  fame  comes  to  be  fairly  weighed, 
not  that  he  has  created  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  by  far  the  most  humorous  characters  in  English 
fiction,  not  that  he  has  drawn  scenes  of  real  life  with 
a  vividness  no  artist  ever  attained  before,  but  that  he 
has  acquired  such  an  absolute  mastery  over  the  human 
heart,  that  we  take  his  ideal  men  and  women  at  once  to 

175 


176  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OP 

oiir  bosoms,  and  make  every  one  of  his  books  a  gallery 
of  our  personal  friends:  Little  Nell  is  not  the  most 
beautifid  creation  in  our  literature  by  any  means  ;  but 
is  there  any  loved  so  well '?  '  Oliver  Twist '  is  not  re- 
markably good  as  a  novel ;  but  ever  since  we  read  it,  — 
thu'ty  years  ago,  —  we  have  been  crying  '  for  more.'  Bob 
Cratchit  and  liis  lame  child,  Bob  Sawyer  and  Mr.  Ben- 
jamin ]\Iicawber,  Pickwick,  —  dear  old  monarch  of  them 
all,  —  these  are  not  for  us  the  airy  fictions  of  the  brain, 
but  flesh-and-blood  friends,  whom  we  love  with  all  our 
hearts,  and  hope  to  meet  some  day  in  this  very  world. 
It  is  the  greatness  of  Dickens,  that  he  can  inspire  us 
with  feelings  like  these  ;  and  no  other  man  has  ever  done 
it  in  an  equal  degree. 

"  Ten  or  twenty  millions  of  people  keep  a  corner  in 
their  hearts  for  Dickens,  because  he  has  seen  so  perfectly 
the  poetry,  the  beauty,  the  hundred  lessons,  which  the 
life  of  the  masses  contains  ;  and  in  all  that  he  has  done 
he  has  striven  for  their  good.  '  I  have  always  had,  and 
always  shall  have,'  said  he  on  his  first  visit  to  this  coun- 
try, '  an  earnest  and  true  desire  to  contribute,  as  far  as 
in  me  lies,  to  the  common  stock  of  healthful  cheerfulness 
and  enjoyment.  I  believe  that  Virtue  shows  quite  as 
v/cU  in  rags  and  patches  as  she  does  in  purple  and  fine 
linen.  I  believe  that  she,'and  every  beautiful  object  in 
external  Nature,  claims  some  sympathy  in  the  breast  of 
the  poorest  man  who  breaks  his  scanty  loaf  of  daily 
bread.'     So,  in  the  faith  that  literature  was  not  for  the 


CHAIILES   DICKENS.  177 

rich  alone,  and  the  noljlest  work  was  the  work  clone  for 
the  poor,  he  bent  himself  bravely  to  his  splendid  task. 
Whether  battling  with  the  weapons  of  his  wit  for  the 
release  of  poor  prisoners  or  poor  schoolboys,  or  humanity 
for  almshouse  paupers,  or  relief  for  befogged  and  plun- 
dered clients  and  a  public  ridden  to  death  by  aristo- 
cratic of&ce-holders,  or  founding  a  great  liberal  news- 
paper in  the  interest  of  popular  government  and  free 
education,  or  refusing  with  dignity  an  invitation  to 
attend  as  an  actor  the  court  where  he  could  not  be  re- 
ceived as  a  private  man,  Charles  Dickens,  without  a 
suspicion  of  demagogism,  without  the  affectation  of 
condescending,  without  uttering  one  insincere  or  flatter- 
ing word,  made  himself  as  truly  the  poet  and  prophet 
of  the  people  in  prose  as  Burns  was  their  chosen  singer 
in  verse.  It  is  for  this  reason,  that,  wherever  the  English 
language  is  spoken,  Charles  Dickens  was  cherished  as  a 
friend.  It  is  for  this  reason,  that  his  death  awakens 
such  universal  sorrow,  and  that  his  name  will  be  held 
in  sincerely  affectionate  remembrance  to  the  latest  gen- 
erations." 

According  to  Mr.  Perkins,  — 

"  By  the  time  that  '  Barnaby  Rudge  '  was  finished, 
during  the  year  1841,  even  the  vigorous  and  enduring 
frame  of  the  new  novelist  was  sensibly  fatigued.  No 
wonder.  In  six  years,  he  had  fully  established  a  new 
department  of  romance,  erecting   a   reputation  which 

12 


178  LlFli}    AND   WRITINGS   OF 

would  have  remained  a  lasting  one  without  another 
word  or  volume  ;  and  had  proved  himself,  besides  liis 
unquestioned  supremacy  as  a  novelist,  a  laborious  and 
al)le  workman  in  three  other  departments  of  literary 
labor,  —  reporting,  editing,  and  biography.  The  exer- 
tion thus  invested  was  intense  as  well  as  enjoyable ; 
for  no  quality  of  genius  is  more  invariable  than  the  in- 
tensity which  marks  its  activity.  No  human  standard 
of  measurement  can  estimate  the  total  of  labor  repre- 
sented by  the  twenty  volumes,  or  thereabouts,  which 
the  young  man  of  twenty-nine  had  produced  in  six 
years.  The  very  penmanship  of  so  many  pages  is  no 
inconsiderable  accumulation  of  labor.  The  contrivance 
of  all  these  stories,  the  adaptation  to  them  of  the  char- 
acters and  groups  supplied  by  the  mind,  the  shaping-out 
of  plot  and  dialogue,  situation  and  catastrophe,  consti- 
tute another  far  higher  and  immeasurably  greater  body 
of  labor ;  and  behind  all  these  was  that  vast  mass 
of  seeing,  understantling,  and  remembering,  which  may 
be  called  the  professional  training  and  experience  of  the 
author,  and  which  was  really  the  whole  of  his  past  life, 
including  both  the  circumstances  of  his  own  home  and 
social  position,  and  the  extraordinary  series  of  researches 
and  studies  that  he  was  always  making  into  the  actuali- 
ties of  the  humanity  around  him.  The  mere  quantity 
of  labor  involved  in  all  this,  leaving  its  qualit}"  out  of 
the  question,  and  treating  it  merely  as  an  enterprise  in 
acquiring  and  recording  knowledge,  is   something  tre- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  179 

mendous.  The  higher  mental  operations  are  not  less 
exhausting,  but  more  so,  than  the  lower ;  and  it  is  not 
wonderful,  but  natural,  that  by  this  time  a  vacation  was 
necessary  even  to  this  vividly-energetic,  svrift,  and  en- 
during organism." 

Therefore  Mr.  Dickens  decided  to  visit  America, 
and  embarked  with  his  wife  in  January,  18-12,  for 

"  The  land  of  thg  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 

They  reached  Boston  on  the  22d ;  went  by  New  York 
to  Baltimore,  Washington,  and  Richmond;  then  by 
York,  Penn.,  and  Pittsburg,  down  the  Ohio  to  Cincin- 
nati, Caho,  and  St.  Louis ;  thence  back  to  Cincinnati, 
northward  to  the  Lakes,  to  Niagara,  and  down  the  St. 
Lawrence  to  Montreal  and  Quebec  ;  and  thence  by  Lake 
Champlain  back  to  New  York;  from  which  he  re- em- 
barked for  England,  June  7  of  the  same  year. 

Mr.  Dickens  was  desirous  of  securing  an  international 
copyright  law,  in  which  he,  as  an  author,  was  specially 
interested,  but  did  not  succeed. 

On  his  return  to  England,  he  published  a  book  con- 
taining some  account  of  his  travels  and  adventures,  and 
conveying  his  impressions  of  the  country  and  its  people. 
This  book  was  received  in  America  with  great  dis- 
pleasure. The  popularity  of  the  author  sank  far  below 
any  zero  of  agreeable  measurement.  All  but  the  truly 
discriminating  cried  out  against  him  ;  for  he  assailed  the 


180  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OP' 

iniquitous  system  of  American  slavery,  lie  exposed  the 
vileness  of  politics  and  the  craftiness  of  politicians,  and  he 
showed  how  the  public  press  catered  too  often  to  public 
vices.  Time  has  wiped  away  some  of  these  stains  from 
the  brow  of  America;  and  the  red  hand  of  War  has 
slain  the  foe  of  our  prosperity.  Slavery  no  longer 
exists ;  and  the  nation  confesses,  by  its  action  towards 
the  black  man,  that  the  strictures  of  Charles  Dickens 
were  deserved.  Yet  much  remains  to  be  done  before 
the  land  shall  be  free  from  reproach,  and  its  people 
from  objectionable  habits.  God  speed  the  day  when  it 
shall  be  wholly  "  a  nation  whose  God  is  the  Lord "  ! 
.With  all  its  faults,  we  love  it;  and  its  truest  fiiends 
pray  for  its  peace  and  prosperity,  and  for  the  time  when 
its  sons  and  daughters  in  home  and  Church  and  State 
sliall  labor  together  for  its  permanent  welfare. 

Extracts  from  "  The  American  Notes  "  will  be  of  in- 
terest ;  and  the  following  portrays  a  portion  of  the 
voyage  hither :  — 

"  It  is  the  third  morning.  I  am  awakened  out  of  my 
sleep  by  a  dismal  shriek  from  my  wife,  who  demands  to 
know  whether  there's  any  danger.  I  rouse  myself,  and 
look  out  of  bed.  The  water-jug  is  plunging  and  leaping 
like  a  lively  dolphin ;  all  the  smaller  articles  are  afloat, 
except  my  shoes,  which  are  stranded  on  a  carpet-bag 
high  and  dry,  like  a  couple  of  coal-barges.  Suddenly 
I  see  them  spring  mto  the  air,  and  behold  the  looking- 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  181 

glass,  which  is  nailed  to  the  wall,  sticking  fast  upon  the 
ceiling.  At  the  same  time,  the  door  entirely  disappears, 
and  a  new  one  is  opened  in  the  floor.  Then  I  begin  to 
comprehend  that  the  state-room  is  standing  on  its  head. 

"  Before  it  is  possible  to  make  any  arrangement  at  all 
compatible  with  this  novel  state  of  things,  the  ship 
rights.  Before  one  can  say,  '  Thank  Heaven  ! '  she 
wrongs  again.  Before  one  can  cry,  '  She  is  wrong ! '  she 
seems  to  have  started  forward,  and  to  Be  a  creature  ac- 
tively running  of  its  own  accord,  with  broken  knees  and 
failing  legs,  through  every  variety  of  hole  and  pitfall, 
and  stumbling  constantly.  Before  one  can  so  much  as 
wonder,  she  takes  a  high  leap  into  the  air.  Before  she 
has  well  done  that,  she  takes  a  deep  dive  into  the  water. 
Before  she  has  gained  the  surface,  she  throws  a  somer- 
set. The  instant  she  is  on  her  legs,  she  rushes  backward. 
And  so  she  goes  on,  staggering,  heaving,  wrestling,  leap- 
ing, diving,  jumping,  pitching,  throbbing,  rolling,  and 
rocking,  and  going  through  all  these  movements,  some- 
times by  turns,  and  sometimes  all  together,  until  one 
feels  disposed  to  roar  for  mercy. 

"  A  steward  passes.  '  StcAvarcl ! '  — '  Sir  ?  '  — '  What  is 
the  matter  ?  What  do  you  call  this  ?  '  — '  Rather  a  heavy 
sea  on  sir,  and  a  head  wind.' 

"  A  head  wind !  Imagine  a  human  face  upon  the 
vessel's  prow,  with  fifteen  thousand  Samsons  in  one, 
bent  upon  chiving  her  back,  and  hitting  her  exactly 
between  the  eyes  whenever  she  attempts  to  advance  an 


182  LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OP 

inch ;  imagine  the  ship  herself,  "with  every  pulse  and 
artecy  of  her  huge  body  swollen  and  bursting  under 
this  maltreatment,  sworn  to  go  on  or  die ;  imagine  the 
wind  howling,  the  sea  roaring,  the  rain  beating,  all  in 
furious  array  against  her ;  picture  the  sky  both  dark 
and  wild,  and  the  clouds,  in  fearful  sympathy  with  the 
waves,  making  another  ocean  in  the  air ;  add  to  all  this 
the  clattering  on  deck  and  down  below,  the  tread  of 
hurried  feet,  the  loud,  hoarse  shouts  of  seamen,  the 
gurgling  in  and  out  of  water  through  the  scuppers,  with 
ever}^  now  and  then  the  striking  of  a  heavy  sea  upon 
the  planks  above,  with  the  deep,  dead,  heavy  sound  of 
thunder  heard  within  a  vault,  —  and  there  is  the  head 
wind  of  that  January  morning. 

"  I  say  nothing  of  what  may  be  called  the  domestic 
noises  of.  the  ship,  —  such  as  the  breaking  of  glass  and 
crockery,  the  tumbling-down  of  stewards,  the  gambols 
overhead  of  loose  casks  and  truant  dozens  of  bottled 
porter,  and  the  very  remarkable  and  far  from  exhilarat- 
ing sounds  raised  in  their  various  state-rooms  by  the 
seventy  passengers  who  were  too  ill  to  get  up  to  break- 
fast, —  I  say  nothing  of  them  ;  for,  although  I  lay  listen- 
ing to  this  concert  for  three  or  four  days,  I  don't  think 
I  heard  it  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  at  the 
expu'ation  of  which  term  I  lay  down  again  excessively 
seasick.  .  .  . 

"  It  Avas  materially  assisted,  I  have  no  doubt,  by  a 
heavy  gale  of  wind,  which  came  slowly  up  at  sunset. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  183 

■when  we  were  about  ten  days  out,  and  raged  with  grad- 
ually-increasing fury  until  morning,  saving  that  it  lulled 
for  an  hour  a  little  before  midnight.  There  was  some- 
tliing  in  the  unnatural  repose  of  that  hour,  and  in  the 
after-gathering  of  the  storm,  so  inconceiyably  awful 
and  tremendous,  that  its  bursting  into  full  violence  was 
almost  a  relief. 

"  The  laboring  of  the  ship  in  the  troubled  sea  on  this 
night  I  shall  never  forget.  '  Will  it  ever  be  worse  than 
this  ? '  was  a  question  I  had  often  heard  asked  when 
every  thing  was  sliding  and  bumping  about,  and  when  it 
certainly  did  seem  difficult  to  comprehend  the  possibility 
of  any  thing  afloat  being  more  disturbed,  without  top- 
pling over,  and  going  down.  But  what  the  agitation  of 
a  steam-vessel  is,  on  a  bad  winter's  night  in  the  wild 
Atlantic,  it  is  impossible  for  the  most  vivid  imagination 
to  conceive.  To  say  that  she  is  flung  down  on  her  side 
in  the  waves,  with  her  masts  dipping  into  them,  and 
that,  springing  up  again,  she  rolls  over  on  the  other 
side,  until  a  heavy  sea  strikes  her  with  the  noise  of  a 
hundred  great  guns,  and  hurls  her  back ;  that  she 
stops  and  staggers  and  shivers,  as  though  stunned,  and 
then,  with  a  violent  throbbing  at  her  heart,  darts  on- 
ward like  a  monster  goaded  into  madness,  to  be  beaten 
down  and  battered  and  crushed  and  leaped  on  by  the 
angry  sea ;  that  thunder,  lightning,  hail,  and  rain  and 
Avind,  are  all  in  fierce  contention  for  the  mastery ;  that 
every  plank  has  its  groan,  every  nail  its  shriek,  and  every 


184  LIFE   AND    WKITINGS   OF 

drop  of  water  in  the  great  ocean  its  howling  voice,  —  is 
notliing.  To  say  that  all  is  grand,  and  all  appalling  and 
horrible  in  the  last  degree,  is  nothing.  Words  cannot 
express  it.  Thoughts  cannot  convey  it.  Only  a  dream 
can  call  it  up  again  in  all  its  fury,  rage,  and  passion. 

"  And  yet,  in  the  very  midst  of  these  terrors,  I  was 
placed  in  a  situation  so  exquisitely  ridiculous,  that  even 
then  I  had  as  strong  a  sense  of  its  absurdity  as  I  have 
now,  and  could  no  more  help  laughing  than  I  can  at 
any  other  comical  incident  happening  under  circum- 
stances the  most  favorable  to  its  enjoyment.  About 
midnight,  we  shipped  a  sea,  which  forced  its  way  through 
the  skylights,  burst  open  the  doors  above,  and  came 
raging  and  roaring  down  into  the  ladies'  cabin,  to  the 
unspeakable  consternation  of  my  wife  and  a  little  Scotch 
lady,  who,  by  the  way,  had  previously  sent  a  message 
to  the  captain  by  the  stewardess,  requesting  him,  with 
her  compliments,  to  have  a  steel  conductor  immediately 
attached  to  the  top  of  every  mast,  and  to  the  chimney, 
in  order  that  the  ship  might  not  be  struck  by  lightning. 
They,  and  the  handmaid  before  mentioned,  being  in  such 
ecstasies  of  fear  that  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  with 
them,  I  naturally  bethought  myself  of  some  restorative 
or  comfortable  cordial  ;  and,  nothing  better  occurring  to 
me  at  the  moment  than  hot  brandy  and  water,  I  pro- 
cured a  tumblerful  without  delay.  It  being  impossible 
to  stand  or  sit  without  holding  on,  they  were  all  heaped 
together  in  one  corner  of  a  long  sofa,  —  a  fixture  ex- 


1 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  185 

tending  entirely  across  the  cabin,  —  where  they  clung  to 
each  other  in  momentary  expectation  of  being  drowned. 
When  I  approached  this  place  with  my  specific,  and 
was  about  to  administer  it,  with  many  conciliatory  ex- 
pressions, to  the  nearest  sufferer,  what  was  my  dismay 
to  see  them  all  roll  slowly  down  to  the  other  end  !  And 
when  I  staggered  to  that  end,  and  held  out  the  glass 
once  more,  how  immensely  baffled  were  my  good  inten- 
tions by  the  ship  giving  another  lurch,  and  their  all 
rolling  back  again !  I  suppose  I  dodged  them  up  and 
down  this  sofa  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  without 
reaching  them  once  ;  and,  by  the  time  I  did  catch  them, 
the  brandy  and  water  was  diminished,  by  constant 
spilling,  to  a  teaspoonful.  To  complete  the  group,  it  is 
necessary  to  recognize  in  this  disconcerted  dodger  an 
individual  very  pale  from  sea-sickness,  who  had  shaved 
his  beard  and  brushed  his  hair  last  at  Liverpool,  and 
whose  only  articles  of  dress  (linen  not  included)  were 
a  pair  of  dreadnought  trousers,  a  blue  jacket  formerly 
admired  upon  the  Thames  at  Richmond,  no  stockings, 
and  one  slipper. 

"  Of  the  outrageous  antics  performed  by  that  ship 
next  morning,  which  made  bed  a  practical  joke,  and 
getting  up,  by  any  process  short  of  falling  out,  an  im- 
possibility, I  say  nothing ;  but  any  thing  like  the  utter 
di'eariness  and  desolation  that  met  my  eyes  when  I  lit- 
erally '  tumbled  up  '  on  deck,  at  noon,  I  never  saw.  Ocean 
and  sky  were  all  of  one  dull,  heavy,  unifox^m  lead-color. 


ISG  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

There  was  no  extent  of  prospect,  even  over  the  di-eary 
waste  that  hiy  around  us ;  for  the  sea  ran  high,  and  the 
horizon  encompassed  us  like  a  large  black  hoop.  Viewed 
from  the  air,  or  some  tall  bluff  on  shore,  it  would  have 
been  imposing  and  stupendous,  no  doubt ;  but,  seen 
fi-om  the  wet  and  rolling  decks,  it  only  impressed  one 
giddily  and  painfully.  In  the  gale  of  last  night,  the  life- 
boat had  been  crushed  by  one  blow  of  the  sea,  like  a 
walnut-shell ;  and  there  it  hung  dangling  in  the  air,  a 
mere  fagot  of  craz}^  boards.  The  planking  of  the  paddle- 
boxes  had  been  torn  sheer  away.  The  wheels  were  ex- 
posed and  bare  ;  and  they  whirled  and  dashed  their 
spray  about  the  decks  at  random.  Chimney  white  with 
crusted  salt,  topmast  struck,  storm-sails  set,  rigging 
all  knotted,  tangled,  wet,  and  drooping, — a  gloomier 
picture  it  would  be  hard  to  look  upon." 

]\Ir.  Dickens  touched  Boston  first,  and,  of  course,  vis- 
ited Boston's  famous  institutions,  —  among  them  that 
for  the  blind,  at  South  Boston,  which  was  then,  as  now, 
presided  over  by  his  pereonal  friend,  that  world -re- 
nowned philanthropist.  Dr.  Samuel  G.  Howe.  Mr. 
Dickens  says, — 

"  I  went  to  see  this  place  one  very  fine  winter  morn- 
ing, an  Italian  sky  above,  and  the  air  so  clear  and  bright 
on  every  side,  that  even  my  e3^es,  which  are  none  of  the 
best,  could  follow  the  minute  lines  and  scraps  of  tracery 


I 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  187 

in  distant  buildings.  Lil^e  most  other  public  institutions 
in  America,  of  the  same  class,  it  stands  a  mile  or  two 
without  the  town,  in  a  cheerful,  healthy  spot ;  and  is  an 
airy,  spacious,  handsome  edifice.  It  is  built  upon  a 
height  commanding  the  harbor.  When  I  paused  for 
a  moment  at  the  door,  and  marked  how  fresh  and  free 
the  whole  scene  was,  —  what  sparkling  bubbles  glanced 
upon  the  waves,  and  welled  up  every  moment  to  the 
surface,  as  though  the  world  below,  like  that  above, 
were  radiant  with  the  bright  day,  and  gushing  over  in 
its  fulness  of  light ;  when  I  gazed  from  sail  to  sail  away 
upon  a  ship  at  sea,  a  tiny  speck  of  shining  white,  the  only 
cloud  upon  the  still,  deep,  distant  blue,  —  and,  turning, 
saw  a  blind  boy  with  his  sightless  face  addressed  that 
way,  as  though  he,  too,  had  some  sense  within  him  of 
the  glorious  distance,  I  felt  a  kind  of  sorrow  that  the 
place  should  be  so  very  light,  and  a  strange  wish  that 
for  his  sake  it  were  darker.  It  was  but  momentary,  of 
course,  and  a  mere  fancy;  but  I  felt  it  keenly  for  all  that. 
"  The  children  were  at  their  daily  tasks  in  different 
rooms,  except  a  few  who  were  already  dismissed,  and 
were  at  play.  Here,  as  in  many  institutions,  no  uniform 
is  worn  ;  and  I  was  very  glad  of  it  for  two  reasons. 
Firstly,  because  I  am  sure  that  nothing  but  senseless 
custom,  and  want  of  thought,  would  reconcile  us  to  the 
liveries  and  badges  we  are  so  fond  of  at  home.  Sec- 
ondly, because  the  absence  of  these  things  presents  each 
child  to  the  visitor  in  his  or  her  own  proper  character, 


188  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

with  its  individuality  unimpaired,  —  not  lost  in  a  dull, 
ugly,  monotonous  repetition  of  the  same  unmeaning 
garl),  which  is  really  an  important  consideration.  The 
wisdom  of  encouraging  a  little  harmless  pride  in  per- 
sonal appearance,  even  among  the  blind,  or  the  whimsi- 
cal absurdity  of  considering  charity  and  leather  breeches 
inseparable  companions,  as  we  do,  requires  no  comment. 

"  Good  order,  cleanliness,  and  comfort  pervaded  every 
corner  of  the  building.  The  various  classes,  who  were 
gathered  round  their  teachers,  answered  the  questions 
put  to  tlicm  with  readiness  and  intelligence,  and  in  a 
spirit  of  cheerful  contest  for  precedence  which  pleased 
me  very  much.  Those  who  were  at  play  were  gleesome 
and  noisy  as  other  chikben.  More  spiritual  and  affec- 
tionate friendsliips  appeared  to  exist  among  them  than 
would  be  found  among  other  young  persons  suffering 
under  no  deprivation ;  but  this  I  expected,  and  was 
prepared  to  find.  It  is  a  part  of  the  great  scheme  of 
Heaven's  merciful  consideration  for  the  afflicted. 

"  In  a  i)ortion  of  the  building  set  apart  for  that  pur- 
pose are  workshops  for  blind  persons  whose  education  is 
finished,  and  who  have  acquired  a  trade,  but  who  can- 
not pursue  it  in  an  ordinary  manufactory,  because  of 
theiv  deprivation.  Several  people  were  at  work  here, 
making  brushes,  mattresses,  &c.  ;  and  the  cheerfulness, 
industry,  and  good  order  discerniljle  in  every  other  j>art 
of  the  building,  extended  to  this  department  also. 

"  On  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  the  pupils  all  repaired, 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  189 

without  any  guide  or  leader,  to  a  spacious  music-hall, 
where  they  took  their  seats  in  an  orchestra  erected  for 
that  purpose,  and  listened  witli  manifest  delight  to  a 
voluntary  on  the  organ,  played  by  one  of  themselves. 
At  its  conclusion,  the  performer,  a  boy  of  nineteen  or 
twenty,  gave  place  to  a  girl ;  and  to  her  accompaniment 
they  all  sang  a  hymn,  and  afterwards  a  sort  of  chorus. 
It  was  very  sad  to  look  upon  and  hear  them,  happy 
though  their  condition  unquestionably  was  ;  and  I  saw 
that  one  blind  girl, -who  (being  for  the  time  deprived 
of  the  use  of  her  limbs  by  illness)  sat  close  beside  me, 
with  her  face  towards  them,  wept  silently  the  while 
she  listened. 

"  It  is  strange  to  watch  the  faces  of  the  blind,  and  see 
how  free  they  are  from  all  concealment  of  what  is  pass- 
ing in  their  thoughts  ;  observing  which,  a  man  with  his 
eyes  may  blush  to  contemplate  the  mask  he  wears.  Al- 
lowing for  one  shade  of  anxious  expression,  which  is 
never  absent  from  their  countenances,  and  the  like  of 
wliich  we  may  readily  detect  in  our  own  faces  if  we  try 
to  feel  our  way  in  the  dark,  every  idea,  as  it  rises  within 
them,  is  expressed  with  the  lightning's  speed  and  Na- 
ture's truth.  If  the  company  at  a  rout,  or  drawing-room 
at  court,  could  only  for  one  time  be  as  unconscious  of 
the  eyes  upon  them  as  blind  men  and  women  are,  what 
secrets  would  come  out !  and  what  a  worker  of  hypoc- 
risy this  sight,  the  loss  of  which  we  so  much  pity,  would 
appear  to  be  ! 


190  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  The  thought  occurred  to  me  as  I  sat  down  in  another 
room  before  a  girl,  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb,  destitute  of 
smell,  and  nearl}^  so  of  taste,  —  before  a  fair  young 
creature  with  every  human  faculty  and  hope,  and  power 
of  goodness  and  affection,  enclosed  within  her  delicate  f 
frame,  and  but  one  outward  sense,  —  the  sense  of  touch. 
There  she  was  before  me  ;  built  up,  as  it  were,  in  a  mar- 
ble cell,  impervious  to  any  ray  of  light  or  particle  of 
sound ;  with  her  poor  white  hand  peeping  through  a 
chink  in  the  wall,  beckoning  to  some  good  man  for  help, 
that  an  immortal  soul  might  be  awakened. 

"  Long  before  I  looked  upon  her,  the  help  had  come. 
Her  face  was  radiant  with  intelligence  and  pleasure  ;  her 
hair,  braided  by  her  own  hands,  was  bound  about  a  head 
whose  intellectual  capacity  and  development  were  beau- 
tifully expressed  in  its  graceful  outline  and  its  broad, 
open  brow  ;  her  dress,  arranged  by  herself,  was  a  pat- 
tern of  neatness  and  simplicity ;  the  work  she  had  knit- 
ted lay  beside  her ;  her  writing-book  was  on  the  desk 
she  leaned  upon.  From  the  mournful  ruin  of  such  be- 
reavement, there  had  slowly  risen  up  this  gentle,  tender, 
guileless,  grateful-hearted  being. 

"  Like  other  inmates  of  that  house,  she  had  a  green 
ribbon  bound  round  her  eyelids.  A  doll  she  liad  dressed 
lay  near  upon  the  ground.  I  took  it  up,  and  saw  that 
she  had  made  a  green  fillet,  such  as  she  wore  herself, 
and  fastened  it  about  its  mimic  eyes. 

"  She  was  seated  in  a  little  enclosure  made  by  school- 


J 


CHAELES  DICKENS.  191 

desks  and  forms,  writing  lier  daily  journal.  But,  soon 
finishing  this  pursuit,  she  engaged  in  an  animated  com- 
munication ^Yitll  a  teacher  who  sat  beside  lier.  This 
was  a  favorite  mistress  with  the  poor  pupil.  If  she  could 
see  the  face  of  her  fair  instructress,  she  would  not  love 
her  less,  I  am  sure." 

Dr.  Howe  was  the  good  genius  who  unlocked  the 
treasures  of  the  mind  and  soul  to  that  poor  benighted 
child.     As  Dickens  said,  — 

"  Well  may  this  gentleman  call  that  a  delightful  mo- 
ment, in  which  some  distant  promise  of  her  present  state 
first  gleamed  upon  the  darkened  mind  of  Laura  Bridg- 
man.  Throughout  his  life,  the  recollection  of  that  mo- 
ment will  be  to  him  a  source  of  pure,  unfading  happi- 
ness ;  nor  will  it  shine  least  brightly  on  the  evening  of 
his  days  of  noble  usefulness. 

"  The  affection  that  exists  between  these  two  —  the 
master  and  the  pupil  —  is  as  far  removed  from  all  ordi- 
nary care  and  regard  as  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
has  had  its  growth  are  apart  from  the  common  occur- 
rences of  life.  He  is  occupied  now  in  devising  means 
of  imparting  to  her  higher  knowledge,  and  of  conveying 
to  her  some  adequate  idea  of  the  great  Creator  of  that 
universe,  in  which,  dark  and  silent  and  scentless  though 
it  be  to  her,  she  has  such  deep  delight  and  glad  enjoy- 
ment. 


192  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  Ye  who  have  eyes,  and  see  not ;  and  have  ears,  and 
hear  not ;  ye  who  are  as  the  hypocrites  -of  sad  counte- 
nances, and  disfigure  your  faces  that  ye  may  seem  unto 
men  to  fast, — learn  healthy  cheerfulness,  and  mild  con- 
tentment from  the  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind  !  Self- 
elected  saints  with  gloomy  brows,  this  sightless,  care- 
less, voiceless  child  may  teach  you  lessons  3"ou  will  do 
well  to  follow.  Let  that  poor  hand  of  hers  lie  gently 
on  your  hearts  ;  for  there  may  be  something  in  its  heal- 
ing touch  akin  to  that  of  the  great  Master,  whose  pre- 
cepts you  misconstrue,  whose  lessons  you  pervert,  of 
whose  charity  and  sympathy  with  all  the  world  not  one 
among  you  in  his  daily  practice  knows  as  much  as  many 
of  the  worst  among  those  fallen  sinners  to  whom  you 
are  liberal  in  nothing  but  the  preachment  of  perdition. 

"  As  I  rose  to  quit  the  room,  a  pretty  little  child  of 
one  of  the  attendants  came  running  in  to  greet  his 
father.  For  the  moment,  a  child  with  eyes,  among  the 
sightless  crowd,  impressed  me  almost  as  painfully  as  the 
blind  bo)'^  in  the  porch  had  done  two  hours  ago.  Ah  ! 
how  much  brighter  and  more  deex:)ly  blue,  glowing  and 
rich  though  it  had  been  before,  was  the  scene  without, 
contrasting  with  the  darkness  of  so  many  youthful  lives 
wilhin  !  " 

While  describing  his  ride  to  Lowell,  Mr.  Dickens 
paints  a  picture  which  travellers  will  readily  recog- 
nize :  — 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  193 

"  Except  wlien  a  brancli-road  joins  the  main  one, 
there  is  seldom  more  than  one  track  of  rails  ;  so  that 
the  road  is  very  narrow,  and  the  view,  where  there  is 
a  deep  cutting,  by  no  means  extensive :  when  there 
is  not,  the  character  of  the  scenery  is  always  the  same, 
— ^mile  after  mile  of  stunted  trees,  some  hewn  down  by 
the  axe,  some  blown  down  b}^  the  wind,  some  half  fallen, 
and  resting  on  their  neighbors,  many  mere  logs  half 
hidden  in  the  swamp,  others  mouldered  away  to  spongy 
chips.  The  very  soil  of  the  earth  is  made  up  of  minute 
fragments  such  as  these.  Each  pool  of  stagnant  water 
has  its  crust  of  vegetable  rottenness :  on  every  side, 
there  are  the  boughs  and  trunks  and  stumps  of  trees  in 
every  possible  stage  of  decay,  decomposition,  and  neg- 
lect. Now  you  emerge  for  a  few  brief  minutes  on  an 
open  country,  glittering  with  some  bright  lake  or  pool, 
broad  as  many  an  English  river,  but  so  small  here,  that 
it  scarcely  has  a  name  ;  now  catch  hasty  glimpses  of  a 
distant  town,  with  its  clean  white  houses  and  their  cool 
piazzas,  its  prim  New-England  church  and  schoolhouse  ; 
when,  whi-r-r-r !  almost  before  you  have  seen  them, 
comes  the  same  dark  screen,  the  stunted  trees,  the 
stumps,  the  logs,  the  stagnant  water,  —  all  so  like  the 
last,  that  you  seem  to  have  been  transported  back  again 
by  magic. 

"  The  train  calls  at  stations  in  the  woods,  where  the 
wild  impossibility  of  anybody  having  the  smallest  reason 
to  get  out  is  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  apparently  des- 

13 


194  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS   OP 

perate  hopelessness  of  there  being  anybody  to  get  in. 
It  rushes  across  the  turnpike-road,  where  there  is  no 
gate,  no  policeman,  no  signal,  nothing  but  a  rough 
wooden   arch,  on  which  is  painted,  '  When  the  bell 

KINGS,    LOOK    OUT    FOR    THE    LOCOMOTIVE.'       On    it   whirls 

headlong,  dives  through  the  woods  again,  emerges  in 
the  light,  clatters  over  frail  arches,  rumbles  upon  the 
heavj"  ground,  shoots  beneath  a  wooden  bridge  which 
intercepts  the  light  for  a  second  like  a  wink,  suddenly 
awakens  all  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  main  street 
of  a  large  town,  and  dashes  on  hap-hazard,  pell-mell, 
neck-or-nothing,  down  the  middle  of  the  road.  There, 
—  with  mechanics  working  at  their  trades,  and  people 
leaning  from  their  doors  and  windows,  and  boys  flying 
kites  and  playing  marbles,  and  men  smoking,  and  women 
talldng,  and  children  crawling,  and  pigs  burrowing,  and 
unaccustomed  horses  plunging  and  rearing,  close  to  the 
very  rails,  —  there,  on,  on,  on,  tears  the  mad  dragon 
of  an  engine  with  its  train  of  cars  ;  scattering  in  all 
directions  a  shower  of  burning  sparks  from  its  wood- 
fire,  screeching,  hissing,  yelling,  panting,  until  at  last 
the  thirsty  monster  stops  beneath  a  covered  way  to 
drink,  the  people  cluster  round,  and  you  have  time  to 
breathe  again." 

Mr.  Dickens  paid  due  tribute  to  the  industry,  energy, 
and  intelHgence  of  the  factory-operatives  then  in  Lowell, 
most  of  whom  were  Americans.     He  was  here  in  the 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  195 

palmy  days  of  "  The  Lowell  Offering,"  and  carried 
liome  with  him  four  hundred  pages  of  proof  that  the 
factory-girls  of  New  England  were  both  moral  and 
literary. 

Of  New  Haven,  he  wrote  thus :  ^- 

"  New  Haven,  known  also  as  the  '  City  of  Elms,'  is  a 
fine  town.  Many  of  its  streets  (as  its  alias  sufficiently 
imports)  are  planted  with  rows  of  grand  old  elm-trees ; 
and  the  same  natural  ornaments  surround  Yale  College, — 
an  establishment  of  considerable  eminence  and  reputation. 
The  various  departments  of  this  institution  are  erected 
in  a  Idnd  of  park,  or  common,  in  the  middle  of  the  town, 
Avhere  they  are  dimly  visible  among  the  shadowing  trees. 
The  effect  is  very  like  that  of  an  old  cathedral-yard  in 
England,  and,  when  their  branches  are  in  full  leaf,  must 
be  extremely  picturesque.  Even  in  the  winter-time, 
these  groups  of  well-grown  trees,  clustering  among  the 
busy  streets  and  houses  of  a  thriving  city,  have  a  very 
quaint  appearance ;  seeming  to  bring  about  a  kind  of 
compromise  between  town  and  country,  as  if  each  had 
met  the  other  half-way,  and  shaken  hands  upon  it ;  which 
is  at  once  novel  and  pleasant." 

With  a  natural  and  righteous  disgust  at  the  practice 
which  Mr.  Dickens  so  sharply  reproves,  and  whose 
reproof  the  author  of  this  volume,  and  every  other 
true  woman   in   the   land,    fully  indorses,   the   follow- 


19G        •  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OF 

ing   quotation   is    given.      Said    Mr.    Dickens    in    the 
"  Notes,"  — 

"  As  Washington  may  be  called  the  headquarters  of 
tobacco-tinctured  saliva,  the  time  is  come  when  I  must 
confess,  without  any  disguise,  that  the  prevalence  of 
those  two  odious  practices,  of  chewing  and  expecto- 
rating, began  about  this  time  to  be  any  thing  but  agree- 
able, and  soon  became  most  offensive  and  sickening.  In 
all  the  public  places  of  America,  this  filthy  custom  is 
recognized.  In  the  courts  of  law,  the  judge  has  his  spit- 
toon, the  crier  his,  the  witness  his,  and  the  prisoner  his ; 
while  the  jurymen  and  spectators  are  provided  for,  as 
so  many  men,  who,  in  the  course  of  nature,  must  desire 
to  spit  incessantly.  In  the  hospitals,  the  students  of 
medicine  are  requested,  by  notices  upon  the  wall,  to 
eject  their  tobacco-juice  into  the  boxes  provided  for  that 
purpose,  and  not  to  discolor  the  stairs.  In  public  build- 
ings, visitors  are  implored,  through  the  same  agency,  to 
squirt  the  essence  of  their  quids,  or  '  plugs,'  as  I  have 
heard  them  called  by  gentlemen  learned  in  this  kind  of 
sweetmeat,  into  the  national  spittoons,  and  not  about 
the  bases  of  the  marble  columns.  But,  in  some  parts, 
this  custom  is  inseparably  mixed  up  with  every  meal  and 
morning  call,  and  with  all  the  transactions  of  social  life. 
The  stranger  who  follows  in  the  track  I  took  myself 
will  find  it  in  its  full  bloom  and  glory,  luxuriant  in'  all 
its  alarming  rccldessness,  at  Washington  ;  and  let  liim 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  197 

not  persuade  himself  (as  I  once  did,  to  my  shame)  that 
previous  tourists  have  exaggerated  its  extent.  The 
thing  itself  is  an  exaggeration  of  nastiness  which. cannot 
be  outdone. 

"  On  board  this  steamboat,  there  were  two  young 
gentlemen,  with  sliirt-collars  reversed,  as  usual,  and 
armed  with  very  big  walking-sticks,  who  planted  two 
seats  in  the  middle  of  the  deck,  at  a  distance  of  some 
four  paces  apart,  took  out  their  tobacco-boxes,  and  sat 
down  opposite  each  other  to  chew.  In  less  than  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour's  time,  these  hopeful  youths  had  shed 
about  them  on  the  clean  boards  a  copious  shower  of 
yellow  rain ;  clearing,  by  that  means,  a  kind  of  magic 
circle,  within  whose  limits  no  intruders  dared  to  come, 
and  which  they  never  failed  to  refresh  and  re-refresh, 
before  a  spot  was  dry.  This,  being  before  breakfast, 
rather  disposed  me,  I  confess,  to  nausea  ;  but,  looking 
attentively  at  one  of  the  expectorators,  I  plainly  saw 
that  he  was  young  in  chewing,  and  felt  inwardly  uneasy 
himself.  A  glow  of  delight  came  over  me  at  this  dis- 
covery ;  and  as  I  marked  his  face  turn  paler  and  paler, 
and  saw  the  ball  of  tobacco  in  his  left  cheek  quiver  with 
his  suppressed  agony,  while  yet  he  spat  and  chewed,  and 
spat  again,  in  emulation  of  his  older  friend,  I  could  have 
fallen  on  his  neck,  and  implored  him  to  go  on  for  hours." 

The  little  touches  of  description  given  by  Dickens  as 
he  passed  along  by  canal,  and  afterward  by  railroad, 


198  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

towards  and  over  the  Alleghanies,  are  worth  perusal. 
He  sa3's, — 

"  There  was  much  in  this  mode  of  travelling  which  I 
heartily  enjoyed  at  the  time,  and  look  back  upon  vvith 
great  pleasure.  Even  the  running-up,  bare-necked,  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  from  the  tainted  cabin  to 
the  dirty  deck,  scooping  up  the  icy  water,  plunging 
one's  head  into  it,  and  drawing  it  out  all  fresh  and 
glowing  with  the  cold,  was  a  good  thing.  The  fast, 
brisk  walk  upon  the  towing-path,  between  that  time 
and  breakfast,  when  every  vein  and  artery  seemed  to 
tingle  with  health  ;  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  opening 
day,  when  light  came  gleaming  off  from  every  thing ; 
the  lazy  motion  of  the  boat,  when  one  lay  idly  on  the 
deck,  looking  through,  rather  than  at,  the  deep-blue 
sky ;  the  gliding-on  at  night,  so  noiselessly,  past  frown- 
ing hills  sullen  with  dark  trees,  and  sometimes  angry  in 
one  red,  burning  spot  high  up,  where  unseen  men  lay 
crouching  round  a  fire  ;  the  shining-out  of  the  briglit 
stars,  undisturbed  by  noise  of  wheels  or  stream,  or  any 
other  sound  than  the  liquid  rippling  of  the  water  as  the 
boat  went  on,  —  all  these  were  pure  delights. 

"  Then  there  were  new  settlements,  and  detached  log- 
cabins  and  frame-houses,  full  of  interest  for  strangers 
from  an  old  country,  —  cabins  with  simple  ovens  out- 
side, made  of  clay ;  and  lodgings  for  the  pigs  nearl}^  as 
good  as  many  of  the  human  quarters  ;  broken  windows 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  199 

patched  with  worn-out  hats,  old  clothes,  old  boards, 
fragments  of  blankets,  and  paper;  and  home-made 
dressers  standing  in  the  open  air  without  the  door, 
whereon  was  ranged  the  household  store,  not  hard  to 
count,  of  earthen  jars  and  pots.  The  eye  was  pained 
to  see  the  stumps  of  great  trees  thickly  strewn  in  ever}'- 
field  of  wheat,  and  seldom  to  lose  the  eternal  swamp 
and  dull  morass,  with  hundreds  of  rotten  trunks  and 
twisted  branches  steeped  in  its  unwholesome  waters. 
It  was  quite  sad  and  oppressive  to  come  upon  great 
tracts  where  settlers  had  been  burning  down  the  trees, 
and  where  their  wounded  bodies  lay  about,  like  those  of 
murdered  creatures ;  while  here  and  there  some  charred 
and  blackened  giant  reared  aloft  two  withered  arms,  and 
seemed  to  call  down  curses  on  his  foes.  Sometimes,  at 
night,  the  way  wound  through  some  lonely  gorge,  like 
a  mountain-pass  in  Scotland,  shining  and  coldly  glitter- 
ing in  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  so  closed  in  by  high, 
steep  hills  all  round,  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  egress, 
save  through  the  narrower  paths  by  which  we  had  come, 
until  one  rugged  hillside  seemed  to  open,  and,  shutting 
out  the  moonlight  as  we  passed  into  its  gloomy  throat, 
wrapped  our  new  course  in  shade  and  darkness. 

"  We  had  left  Harrisburg  on  Friday.  On  Sunday 
morning,  we  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  which 
is  crossed  by  railroad.  There  arc  ten  inclined  planes  ; 
five  ascending,  and  five  c^escending.  The  carriages  are 
dragged  up  the  former,  and  let  slowly  down  the  latter, 


200  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

])y  means  of  stationaiy  engines;  the  comparatively  level 
sj)aces  between  being  traversed,  sometimes  by  horse,  and 
sometimes  by  engine-power,  as  the  case  demands.  Oc- 
casionally, the  rails  are  laid  upon  the  extreme  verge  of  a 
giddy  precipice  ;  and,  looking  from  the  carriage-window, 
the  traveller  gazes  sheer  down,  without  a  stone,  or  scrap 
of  fence,  between,  into  the  mountain  -  depths  below. 
The  journey  is  very  carefully  made,  however  (only  two 
carriages  travelling  together),  and,  while  proper  pre- 
cautions are  taken,  is  not  to  be  dreaded  for  its  dangers. 
"  It  was  very  pretty,  travelling  thus  at  a  rapid  pace 
along  the  heights  of  the  mountain  in  a  keen  wind,  to 
look  down  into  a  valley  full  of  light  and  softness  ; 
catching  glimpses,  through  the  tree-tops,  of  scattered 
cabins  ;  children  running  to  the  doors  ;  dogs  bursting 
out  to  bark,  whom  we  could  see  without  hearing  ;  ter- 
rified pigs  scampering  homewards  ;  families  sitting  out 
in  their  rude  gardens  ;  cows  gazing  upward  with  a 
stupid  indifference;  men  in  their  shirt -sleeves  look- 
ing on  at  their  unfinished  houses,  planning  out  to- 
morrow's work ;  and  we  riding  onward,  high  above 
them,  like  a  whirlwind.  It  was  amusing,  too,  when  we 
had  dined,  and  rattled  down  a  steep  x^ass,  having  no 
other  moving-power  than  the  weight  of  the  carriages 
themselves,  to  see  the  engine,  released  long  after  us, 
come  buzzing  down  alone,  like  a  great  insect ;  its  back 
of  green  and  gold  so  shining  in  the  sun,  that,  if  it  had 
spread  a  pair  of  wings,  and  soared  away,  no  one  would 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  201 

have  had  occasion,  as  I  fancied,  for  the  least  surprise. 
Bat  it  stopped  short  of  us,  in  a  very  business-like  man- 
ner, when  we  reached  the  canal,  and,  before  we  left  the 
wharf,  went  panting  up  this  hill  again,  with  the  passen- 
gers who  had  waited  our  arrival  for  the  means  of  trav- 
ersing the  road  by  which  we  had  come." 

Mr.  Dickens  was  not  favorably  impressed  with  the 
Mississippi ;  and  his  description  is  fraught  with  horror, 
and  would  drive  away  from  the  great  river  those  who 
wished  to  see  only  pleasant  sights.     He  sa}' s,  — 

"  Nor  was  the  scenery,  as  we  approached  the  junction 
of  the  Ohio  and  INIississippi  Rivers,  at  all  inspiriting  in 
its  influence.  The  trees  were  stunted  in  their  growth ; 
the  banks  were  Ioav  and  flat ;  the  settlements  and  log- 
cabins  fewer  in  number,  their  inhabitants  more  wan 
and  wretched,  than  any -we  had  encountered  yet.  No 
songs  of  birds  were  in  the  air,  no  pleasant  scents,  no 
moving  lights  and  shadows  from  swift-passing  clouds. 
Hour  after  hour,  the  changeless  glare  of  the  hot,  unwink- 
ing sk}^  shone  upon  the  same  monotonous  objects.  Hour 
^  after  hour,  the  river  rolled  along  as  wearily  and  slowly 
as  the  time  itself. 

"  At  length,  upon  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  we 
arrived  at  a  spot  so  much  more  desolate  than  any  we 
had  yet  beheld,  that  the  forlornest  places  we  had  passed 
were,  in  comparison  with  it,  full  of  interest.     At  the 


202  LIFE  AND  ^v^^nNGS   of 

junction  of  the  two  rivers,  on  ground  so  flat  and  low 
and  marshy,  that,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  it  is 
inundated  to  the  house-tops,  hes  a  breeding  -  place  for 
fever,  ague,  and  death  ;  vaunted  in  England  as  a  mine 
of  golden  hope,  and  speculated  in,  on  the  faith  of  mon- 
strous representations,  to  many  people's  ruin.  A  dismal 
swamp,  on  which  the  half-built  houses  rot  awa}^  cleared 
here  and  there  for  the  space  of  a  few  yards,  and  teem- 
ing then  with  rank,  unwholesome  vegetation,  in  whose 
baleful  shade  the  wretched  wanderers  who  are  tempted 
hither  droop  and  die,  and  lay  their  bones  ;  the  hateful 
Mississippi  circling  and  eddying  before  it,  and  turning 
off  upon  its  southern  course,  a  slimy  monster  hideous  to 
behold  ;  a  hotbed  of  disease  ;  an  ugly  sepulchre ;  a  grave 
uncheered  by  any  gleam  of  promise ;  a  place  without 
one  single  quality  in  earth  or  air  or  water  to  commend 
it,  —  such  is  this  dismal  Cairo. 

"But  what  words  shall  describe  the  Mississij^pi,  the 
great  'Father  of  Rivers,'  who  (praise  be  to  Heaven  !)  has 
no  young  children  like  him  !  An  enormous  ditch,  some- 
times two  or  three  miles  wide,  running  liquid  mud  six 
miles  an  hour ;  its  strong  and  frothy  current  choked  and 
obstructed  everywhere  by  huge  logs  and  whole  forest- 
trees, —  now  twining  themselves  together  in  great  rafts,' 
from  the  interstices  of  which  a  sedgy,  lazy  foam  works 
up  to  float  upon  the  water's  top  ;  now  rolling  past,  like 
monstrous  bodies,  their  tangled  roots  showing  like  mat- 
ted hair ;  now  glancing  singly  by,  like  giant  leeches ; 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  203 

and  now  writhing-  round  and  round  in  the  vortex  of 
some  small  whirlpool,  like  wounded  snakes  ;  —  the  banks 
low ;  the  trees  dwarfish ;  the  marshes  swarming  with 
frogs ;  the  wretched  cabins  few  and  far  apart,  their  in- 
mates hollow-cheeked  and  pale  ;  the  weather  very  hot ; 
mosquitoes  penetrating  into  every  crack  and  crevice  of 
the  boat ;  mud  and  slime  on  every  thing  ;  nothing  pleas- 
ant in  its  aspect  but  the  harmless  lightning,  which  flick- 
ers every  night  upon  the  dark  horizon. 

"  For  two  days,  we  toiled  up  this  foul  stream,  striking 
constantly  against  the  floating  timber,  or  stopping  to 
avoid  those  more  dangerous  obstacles,  the  snags,  or  saw- 
yers, which  are  the  liidden  trunks  of  trees  that  have 
their  roots  below  the  tide.  When  the  nights  are  very 
dark,  the  lookout  stationed  in  the  head  of  the  boat 
knows  by  the  rippling  of  the  water  if  any  great  impedi- 
ment be  near  at  hand,  and  rings  a  bell  beside  him,  which 
is  the  signal  for  the  engine  to  be  stopped :  but  always 
in  the  night  this  bell  has  work  to  do  ;  and,  after  every 
ring,  there  comes  a  blow  which  renders  it  no  easy  matter 
to  remain  in  bed. 

"  The  decline  of  day  here  was  very  gorgeous,  tinging 
the  firmament  deeply  with  red  and  gold  up  to  the  very 
kej^stone  of  the  arch  above  us.  As  the  sun  went  down 
behind  the  bank,  the  slightest  blades  of  grass  upon  it 
seemed  to  become  as  distinctly  visible  as  the  arteries  in 
the  skeleton  of  a  leaf ;  and  when,  as  it  slowly  sank,  the 
red  and  golden  bars  upon  the  water  grew  dimmer  and 


204  LIFE    AND    WHITINGS     OF 

dimmer  yet,  as  if  they  were  sinking  too,  and  all  the 
glowing  colors  of  departing  day  paled,  inch  by  inch, 
before  the  sombre  night,  the  scene  became  a  thousand 
times  more  lonesome  and  more  dreary  than  before,  and 
all  its  influence  darkened  with  the  sky. 

"  We  drank  the  muddy  water  of  this  river  while  we 
were  upon  it.  It  is  considered  wholesome  by  the  na- 
tives, and  is  something  more  opaque  than  gruel." 

But  one  thing,  at  least,  Mr,  Dickens  enjoyed  as  Avell 
as  the  Americans  do, — and  that  was  our  cataract.  From 
"  The  Notes,"  one  would  judge  that  he  did  not  visit  Goat 
Island ;  and  one  cannot  but  regret  that  he  did  not, 
and  there  view  the  marvellous  rapids,  whose  grandeur 
is  scarcely  surpassed  by  that  of  the  great  falls  them- 
selves.    Mr.  Dickens  thus  refers  to  his  visit :  — 

"  It  was  a  miserable  day,  —  chilly  and  raw,  a  damp  mist 
falling,  and  the  trees  in  that  northern  region  quite  bare 
and  wintry.  Whenever  the  train  halted,  I  listened  for 
the  roar,  and  was  constantly  straining-  my  eyes  in  the 
direction  where  I  knew  the  falls  must  be  from  seeing 
the  river  rolling  on  towards  th.em  ;  eYery  moment  ex- 
pecting to  behold  the  spray.  AVithin  a  few  minutes  of 
our  stopping,  not  before,  I  saw  two  great  white  clouds 
rising  up  slowly  and  majestically  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth  :  that  was  all.  At  length  we  alighted;  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  I  heard  the  mighty  rush  of  water,  and 
felt  the  ground  tremble  underneath  my  feet. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  205 

"  The  bank  is  very  steep,  and  was  slippery  with  rain 
and  half-melted  ice.  I  hardly  know  how  I  got  down ; 
but  I  was  soon  at  the  bottom,  and  climbing,  with  two 
English  ofi&cers  who  were  crossing,  and  had  joined  me, 
over  some  broken  rocks,  deafened  by  the  noise,  half 
lilindecl  by  the  spray,  and  wet  to  the  skin.  We  were  at 
the  foot  of  the  American  Fall.  I  could  see  an  immense 
torrent  of  water  tearing  headlong  down  from  some  great 
height,  but  had  no  idea  of  shape  or  situation  or  an}^ 
thing  but  vague  immensity. 

"  When  we  were  seated  in  the  little  ferry-boat,  and 
were  crossing  the  swollen  river  immediateh'  before  both 
cataracts,  I  began  to  feel  what  it  was  ;  but  I  was  in  a 
manner  stunned,  and  unable  to  comprehend  the  vastness 
of  the  scene.  It  was  not  until  I  came  on  Table  Rock, 
and  looked,  —  great  Heaven,  on  what  a  fall  of  bright 
green  water !  —  that  it  came  upon  me  in  its  full  might 
and  majesty. 

Then,  when  I  felt  how  near  to  my  Creator  I  was 
standing,  the  first  effect,  and  the  enduring  one,  —  in- 
stant and  lasting,  —  of  the  tremendous  spectacle,  was 
peace, — peace  of  mind,  tranquillity,  calm  recollections  of 
the  dead,  great  thoughts  of  eternal  rest  and  happiness, 
nothing  of  gloom  or  terror.  Niagara  was  at  once 
stamped  upon  my  heart  an  image  of  beauty,  to  re- 
main there,  changeless  and  indelible,  until  its  pulses 
cease  to  beat  forever. 

"  Oh  !  how  the  strife  and  trouble  of  daily  life  receded 


206  Lll'-K   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

from  my  view,  and  lessened  in  the  distance,  during 
the  ten  memorable  days  we  passed  on  that  enchanted 
ground !  What  voices  spoke  from  out  the  thundering 
Avater !  what  faces,  faded  from  tlie  earth,  looked  out 
upon  me  from  its  gleaming  depths !  what  heavenly 
promise  glistened  in  those  angels'  tears,  the  drops  of 
many  hues,  that  showered  around,  and  twined  them- 
selves about  the  gorgeous  arches  which  the  changing 
rainbows  made  ! 

"  I  never  stirred  in  all  that  time  from  the  Canadian 
side,  wliither  1  had  gone  at  first.  I  never  crossed  the 
river  again  :  for  I  knew  there  were  people  on  the  other 
shore ;  and,  in  such  a  place,  it  is  natural  to  shun  strange 
company.  To  wander  to  and  fro  all  day,  and  see  the 
cataracts  from  all  points  of  view ;  to  stand  upon  the 
edge  of  the  great  Horseshoe  Fall,  marking  the  hurried 
water  gathering  strength  as  it  approached  the  vei'ge,  jet 
seeming,  too,  to  pause  before  it  shot  into  the  gulf  below  ; 
to  gaze  from  the  river's  level  up  at  the  torrent  as  it  came 
streaming  down  ;  to  climb  the  neighboring  heights,  and 
watch  it  through  the  trees,  and  see  the  wreathing  water 
in  the  rapids  hurrying  on  to  take  its  fearful  plunge  ;  to 
linger  in  the  shadow  of  the  solemn  rocks  three  miles 
below,  watching  the  river,  as,  stirred  by  no  visible  cause, 
it  heaved  and  eddied,  and  awoke  the  echoes,  being  trou- 
bled yet  far  down  beneath  the  surface  by  its  giant  leap ; 
to  have  Niagara  before  me,  lighted  by  the  sun  and  by 
the  moon,  red  in  the  day's  decline,  and  gray  as  even- 


I 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  207 

ing  slowly  fell  upon  it ;  to  look  upon  it  every  day,  and 
wake  up  in  the  night,  and  hear  its  ceaseless  voice,  —  this 
was  enough. 

"  I  think  in  every  quiet  season  now,  still  do  those 
waters  roll  and  leap  and  roar  and  tumble  all  day  long  ; 
still  are  the  rainbows  spanning  them  a  hundred  feet 
below ;  still,  when  the  sun  is  on  them,  do  they  shine 
and  glow  like  molten  gold ;  still,  when  the  day  is 
gloomy,  do  they  fall  like  snow,  or  seem  to  crumble  away 
like  the  front  of  a  great  chalk-cliff,  or  roll  down  the  rock 
like  dense  white  smoke  :  but  always  does  the  mighty 
stream  appear  to  die  as  it  comes  down  ;  and  always  from 
its  unfathomable  grave  arises  that  tremendous  ghost  of 
spray  and  mist  which  is  never  laid,  which  has  haunted 
this  place  with  the  same  dread  solemnity  since  darkness 
brooded  on  the  deep,  and  that  first  flood  before  the 
Deluge  —  light — came  rushing  on  creation  at  the  word 
of  God. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


CHRISTMAS     CAROLS. 


Martin  Chuzzlewit.  —  Pictures  from  Italy .  —  First  Carol.  —  Tiuy  Tim.  —  Tlie  Chimes 
— Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 


"  O  lovely  voices  of  the  sky, 

Which  hymned  the  Saviour's  hirth  I 
Are  ye  not  singing  still  on  high, 

Ye  that  sang,  '  Peace  on  earth '  ? 
To  us  yet  speak  the  strains 

Wherewith,  in  times  gone  hy, 
Ye  blessed  the  Syrian  swains, 
O  voices  of  the  sky  I  '■ 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


'Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  on  earth  peace,  good-will  toward  men."  —  Luke 


U.  14. 


OLLOWING  his  "Notes,"  on  his  return 
from  America,  J\Ir.  Dickens  wrote  a  novel 
called  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  which,  like 
"  The  Notes,"  created  great  excitement 
on  this  side  of  the  water ;  and  they  who 
had  been  fulsome  in  their  adulation  of  the  novelist  were 
extremely  indignant  that  he  should  repay,  as  they  felt, 
their  kind  welcome  with  abuse  and  sarcasm.  This  book 
appeared  in  numbers  during  1844.  A  writer  in  "  Tlie 
Illustrated  London  News"  thhiks  that  Mr.  Dickens's 

208 


CHARLES    DICKEXS.  209 

"method  of  composing  and  publishing'  his  tales  in 
monthly  parts,  or  sometimes  in  weekly  parts,  aided  the 
experience  of  this  immediate  personal  companionship  be- 
tween the  writer  and  the  reader.  It  was  just  as  if  we 
received  a  letter  or  a  \dsit,  at  regular  intervals,  from  a 
kindly  observant  gossip,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  watch- 
ing the  domestic  life  of  the  Nicldebys  or  the  Chuzzlewits, 
and  who  would  let  us  know  from  time  to  time  how  they 
were  going  on.  There  was  no  assumption,  in  general,  of 
having  a  complete  and  finished  history  to  deliver :  he 
came  at  fixed  periods,  merely  to  report  what  he  had  per- 
ceived since  his  last  budget  v/as  opened  for  us.  The 
course  of  his  narrative  seemed  to  run  on,  somehow,  al- 
most simultaneously  with  the  real  progress  of  events,  only 
keeping  a  little  behind,  so  that  he  might  have  time  to 
write  down  whatever  happened,  and  to  tell  us.  This 
periodical  and  piece-meal  form  of  publication,  being  at- 
tended by  a  fragmentary  manner  of  composition,  was  not 
at  all  favorable  to  the  artistic  harmony  of  his  work  as  a 
whole.  But  few  persons  ever  read  any  of  Dickens's  sto- 
ries as  a  whole  for  the  first  time,  because  every  one  was 
eager  to  enjoy  the  parts  as  they  were  printed  ;  going  on  a 
twelve-month  or  twenty  months  in  due  succession,  and 
growing  in  popularity  as  the  pile  of  them  increased.  The 
obvious  effect  was  to  inspire  all  his  constant  readers  —  say 
a  million  or  two  —  with  a  sense  of  habitual  dependence 
on  their  contemporary,  the  man  Charles  Dickens,  for  a 
continued  supply  of  the  entertainment  which  he  alone 

14 


'110  LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF 

C'OuUl  furnish.  He  was  personally  indispensable  to 
them,  as  a  favorite  actor  might  be  to  the  inveterate 
playgoers  of  a  former  age,  who  lived  upon  their  Gar- 
rick  or  their  Kemble.  If  each  of  his  stories  had  ap- 
peared complete  in  three  octavo  volumes,  with  the  lapse 
of  a  couple  of  j'ears  betAveen  one  work  and  another,  the 
feeling  of  continual  dependence  on  the  living  author 
would  have  been  less  prevalent  among  us. 

"  But  it  was  not  by  dint  of  this  mechanical  contrivance 
of  publishing,  and  the  corresponding  talent  of  (^uick  and 
manifold  invention,  presenting  novel  scenes  and  inci- 
dents, with  a  crowd  of  new  figures,  in  each  section  of  a 
story,  that  Charles  Dickens  obtained  his  immense  com- 
mand over  the  minds  of  the  English  people.  Other 
novelists  have  shown  the  same  power  of  inventing  a 
multiplicity  of  incidents  to  strike  the  fanc}^  and  filling 
every  corner  with  countless  persons  or  personal  names, 
intended  to  represent  the  diversities  of  human  life  and 
character.  The  result  is  bewildering  and  fatiguing,  if 
we  should  attempt  to  read  any  of  those  second-rate 
serial  novels  as  a  connected  story.  They  found  accept- 
ance in  monthly  morsels ;  there  was  some  vitality  in 
their  scattered  limbs :  but,  when  the  body  is  put  to- 
gether, we  find  it  is  dead,  so  that  it  lies  shut  between 
the  boards  of  the  bound  volume,  as  though  enclosed  in  a 
coffin,  extinct  to  the  end  of  time.  Such  would  have 
been  the  fate,  likewise,  of  these  stories  of  Dickens's,  if 
he  had  been  merely  a  writer  of  extraordinary  talent  and 


1 


I 


i 


CIIAKLES    DICKENS.  211 

skill ;  but  he  was  also  a  man  of  genius,  —  let  us  say,  a 
prose  poet.  The  genius  of  the  poet,  in  which  term  we 
beg  leave  to  include  that  of  the  genuine  humorist,  who 
is  equally  the  man  of  imagination,  cannot  die,  and  be 
shut  up  in  a  coffin,  and  so  buried  and  forgotten.  Try 
to  dispose  of  your  Shakspeare  in  that  manner  I  The 
forms  of  poetry  may  pass  out  of  fashion  ;  they  may 
change  or  perish ;  they  may  have  been  imperfect  at 
their  best,  for  they  were  borrowed  from  the  custom  of 
the  day :  but  the  spirit  of  poetry  is  immortal.  And  we 
reckon  true  humor  as  a  peculiar  exhibition  of  this  spirit ; 
and  we  esteem  Dickens,  next  after  Shakspeare,  as  the 
greatest  of  English  humorists,  —  that  is  to  say,  with  ref- 
erence to  literary  history,  the  greatest  of  all  humorists  ; 
for  none  of  the  foreigners,  ancient  or  modern,  —  Aris- 
tophanes, Boccaccio,  Rabelais,  Cervantes,  or  Jean  Paul, 
—  have  come  near  Shakspeare  in  this  faculty,  though 
possessing  it  in  a  large  measure.  That  none  of  the 
'  English  humorists  of  the  eighteenth  century  '  —  not 
even  Swift  or  Fielding,  much  less  Smollett  or  Sterne  — 
is  to  be  compared  with  Dickens  in  this  respect,  we  be- 
lieve Thackeray  himself  would  have  been  ready  to 
admit.  Hogarth,  if  the  two  arts  of  painting  and  novel- 
Avriting  allow  their  comparison,  may  be  deemed  a  pre- 
cursor of  Dickens.  Many  of  our  poets,  from  Chaucer 
onwards,  —  we  cannot,  indeed,  name  Milton  or  Words- 
worth, but  Robert  Burns  and  Walter  Scott  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Tweed,  —  have  been  richly  endowed  with 


212  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

humor.  It  is  a  Biitisli  or  English  gift ;  and  Washing- 
ton Irving'  has  shown  tliat  it  flourishes  in  transplantation 
to  America.  With  the  spirit  of  S3'mpathetic  fun  and 
genial  caprice  is  alhed  the  special  power  of  imagination 
that  enters  into  the  motives  of  eccentric  characters,  and 
of  whimsical  or  absurd  actions  and  behavior.  This  be- 
longs to  poetr}^  and  chiefly  to  dramatic  poetry,  quite 
as  much  as  those  other  special  faculties  of  imagination 
which  go  to  the  conception  and  representation  of  ex- 
alted passions,  or  to  the  ideal  combination  of  sublime 
and  beautiful  forms.  Shakspearc's  clowns,  and  his  fool- 
ish varlets  or  blundering  louts,  are,  equally  with  his 
heroes,  the  creation  of  a  great  poet.  Shall  we  not  say 
the  same  of  Pickwick,  of  Sam  Weller,  of  Pecksniff,  of 
INIrs.  Gamp,  and  of  many  other  queer  characters  which 
only  a  mighty  creative  imagination  could  have  formed  ? 

"  His  genius  was  the  gift  of  Nature  ;  but,  for  his  art 
as  a  writer,  he  seems  to  have  early  studied  two  of  the 
best  examples  in  our  language,  —  Henry  Fielding  and 
Washington  Irving.  The  mock-heroic  strain  of  his 
preambles  to  many  chapters  of  '  Pickwick,'  '  Nicholas 
Nickleby,'  and  '  Martin  Chuzzlewit,'  Avas  tuned  in  the 
key  of  similar  diversions  attending  the  history  of  Tom 
Jones  ;  and  the  shrewd,  sly  commentar}'-,  enlivened  by 
a  variety  of  playful  fancies  and  whimsical  conceits,  with 
which  Dickens  peeps  into  the  minutest  details  of  scenery 
and  costume,  reminds  us  of  '  The  Sketch  Book,'  and  of 


CHAELES    DICKENS.  213 

'  Bracebridge  IlalL'  His  propensit}^  to  indulge  in  the 
use  of  irony,  almost  too  persistently,  and  sometimes  to 
dwell  upon  a  single  witty  caprice,  turned  all  manner  of 
ways,  through  several  paragraphs  or  pages,  is  one  of  those 
splendid  faults  of  excess  from  which  even  Shakspeare 
is  not  wholly  fi'ee.  We  know  what  was  said  of  him  who 
had  never  blotted  out  a  line  of  his  writing,  '  Oh  that 
he  had  blotted  out  a  thousand ! '  Dickens,  if  we  re- 
member rightly,  made  an  express  acknowledgment, 
when  he  first  visited  America,  of  his  obligations  to 
"Washington  Irving  as  a  literary  model ;  and  he  could 
scarcely  have  chosen  a  better,  for  style,  tone,  and  man- 
ner, amongst  the  prose-writers  of  the  age.  The  inclina- 
tion, encouraged  by  Thackera}^,  to  go  farther  back  — 
namely,  to  Swift  and  Addison  — for  patterns  of  good 
English  thinldng  and  writing,  has  nearly  worn  itself 
out ;  and  we  again  recognize  in  the  best  of  oiu*  nine- 
teenth-century authors  a  style  of  greater  energy  and 
capacity  than  that  of  the  eighteenth,  with  equal  clear- 
ness and  easy  grace.  Dickens  possessed  as  full  command 
of  all  the  resources  of  our  language  as  Ruskin ;  and  he 
could^  when  it  suited  his  purpose,  write  with  as  much 
force  and  precision  as  Macaulay.  A  volume  of  '  elegant 
extracts '  might  be  gathered  from  his  works  to  exemplify 
the  rules  of  idiomatic  English  prose-composition." 

From  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  a  few  extracts  are  here 
given.  The  following  presents  a  vivid  picture  of  an 
aulumnal  sunset  and  the  autumn  breeze :  — 


214  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  It  was  pretty  late  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when 
the  declining  sun,  struggling  through  the  mist  which 
had  obscured  it  all  day,  looked  brightly  down  upon  a 
little  Wiltshire  village,  within  an  easy  journey  of  the 
fair  old  town  of  Salisbur3^ 

"  Like  a  sudden  flash  of  memory  or  spirit  kindling  up 
the  mind  of  an  old  man,  it  shed  a  glory  upon  the  scene, 
in  which  its  departed  youth  and  freshness  seemed  to  live 
again.  The  wet  grass  sparkled  in  the  light ;  the  scanty 
patches  of  verdure  in  the  hedges  —  where  a  few  green 
twigs  yet  stood  together  bravely,  resisting  to  the  last 
the  tyranny  of  nipping  winds  and  early  frosts  —  took 
heart,  and  brightened  up  ;  the  stream,  which  had  been 
dull  and  sullen  all  day  long,  broke  out  into  a  cheerful 
smile  ;  the  birds  began  to  chirp  and  twitter  on' the  naked 
boughs,  as  though  the  hopeful  creatures  half  believed 
that  winter  had  gone  by,  and  spring  had  come  already  ; 
the  vane  upon  the  tapering  spire  of  the  old  church 
gUstened  from  its  lofty  station  in  sympathy  with  the 
general  gladness ;  and  from  the  ivy-shaded  windows 
such  gleams  of  light  shone  back  upon  the  glowing  sky, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  quiet  buildings  were  the  Hoard- 
ing-place of  twenty  summers,  and  all  their  ruddiness 
and  warmth  were  stored  within. 

"  Even  those  tokens  of  the  season  which  emphatically 
whispered  of  the  coming  winter  graced  the  landscape, 
and,  for  the  moment,  tinged  its  livelier  features  with  no 
oppr^ive  air  of  sadness.    The  fallen  leaves,  with  which 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  LJ15 

the  ground  was  strewn,  gave  forth  a  pleasant  fragrance, 
and,  subduing  all  harsh  sounds  of  distant  feet  and  wheels, 
created  a  repose  in  gentle  unison  with  the  light  scatter- 
ing of  seed  hither  and  thither  by  the  distant  husband- 
man, and  with  the  noiseless  passage  of  the  plough  as  it 
turned  up  the  rich  brown  earth,  and  wrought  a  graceful 
pattern  in  the  stubbled  fields.  On  the  motionless 
branches  of  some  trees,  autumn  berries  hung  like  clus- 
ters of  coral  beads,  as  in  those  fabled  orchards  where 
the  fruits  were  jewels ;  others,  stripped  of  all  their  gar- 
niture, stood,  each  the  centre  of  its  little  heap  of  bright 
red  leaves,  watching  their  slow  decay  ;  others  again, 
still  wearing  theirs,  had  them  all  crunched  and  crackled 
up,  as  though  they  had  been  burnt ;  about  the  stems  of 
some  were  piled  in  ruddy  mounds  the  apples  they  had 
borne  that  year;  while  others  (hardy  evergreens  this 
class)  showed  somewhat  stern  and  gloomy  in  their  vigor, 
as  charged  by  Nature  with  the  admonition,  that  it  is  not 
to  her  more  sensitive  and  joyous  favorites  she  grants  the 
longest  term  of  life.  Still,  athAvart  their  darker  boughs, 
the  sunbeams  struck  out  paths  of  deeper  gold  ;  and  the 
red  light,  mantling  in  among  their  swarthy  branches, 
used  them  as  foils  to  set  its  brightness  off,  and  aid  the 
lustre  of  the  dying  day. 

"  A  moment,  and  its  glory  was  no  more.  The  sun 
went  down  beneath  the  long  dark  lines  of  hill  and  cloud 
which  piled  up  in  the  west  an  airy  city,  wall  heaped  on 
wall,  and  battlement  on  battlement ;  the  light  was  all 


216  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS  OF 

withdrawn  ;  tlie  shining  church  turned  cokl  and  dark  ; 
the  stream  forgot  to  smile ;  the  birds  were  silent ;  and 
the  gloom  of  winter  dwelt  on  every  thing. 

"  An  evening  wind  uprose  too ;  and  the  slighter 
branches  cracked  and  rattled  as  they  moved,  in  skeleton 
dances,  to  its  moauuig  music.  The  withering  leaves,  no 
longer  quiet,  hurried  to  and  fro  in  search  of  shelter  from 
its  chill  pursuit ;  the  laborer  unyoked  his  horses,  and, 
with  head  bent  down,  trudged  briskly  home  beside 
them ;  and  from  the  cottage-windows  lights  began  to 
glance  and  wink  upon  the  darkening  fields. 

'*  Then  the  village  forge  came  out  in  all  its  bright 
importance.  The  lusty  bellows  roared, '  Ha,  ha  ! '  to  the 
clear  fire,  which  roared  in  turn,  and  bade  the  shining 
sparks  dance  gayly  to  the  merry  clinking  of  the  hammers 
on  the  anvil.  The  gleaming  iron,  in  its  emulation, 
sparkled  too,  and  shed  its  red-hot  gems  around  pro- 
fusely. The  strong  smith  and  his  men  dealt  such  strokes 
upon  their  work  as  made  even  the  melancholy  night 
rejoice,  and  brought  a  glow  into  its  dark  face  as  it  hov-  ^ 
ered  about  the  door  and  windows,  peeping  curiously  in 
above  the  shoulders  of  a  dozen  louncjers.  As  to  this 
idle  company,  there  they  stood,  spell-bound  by  the  ^ 
place,  and,  casting  now  and  then  a  glance  upon  the  ^ 
darkness  in  their  rear,  settled  their  lazj''  elbows  more  at 
case  upon  the  sill,  and  leaned  a  little  further  in,  no 
more  disposed  to  tear  themselves  away  than  if  they  had 
been  born  to  cluster  round  tlie  blazing  hearth  like  soj 
many  crickets. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  217 

"  Out  upon  the  angry  wind  !  how,  from  sighing,  it 
began  to  bluster  round  the  merry  forge,  banging  at  the 
wicket,  and  grumbling  in  the  chimney,  as  if  it  bullied 
the  jolly  bellows  for  doing  any  thing  to  order.  And 
what  an  impotent  swaggerer  it  was  too,  for  all  its  noise  ! 
for,  if  it  had  any  influence  on  that  hoarse  companion,  it 
was  but  to  make  him  roar  his  cheerful  song  the  louder, 
and,  by  consequence,  to  make  the  fire  burn  the  brighter, 
and  the  sparks  to  dance  more  gayly  yet :  at  length,  they 
whizzed  so  madly  round  and  round,  that  it  was  too  muoli 
for  such  a  surly  wind  to  bear :  so  off  it  flew  with  a  howl, 
giving  the  old  sign  before  the  ale-house  door  such  a  cuff 
as  it  went,  that  the  Blue  Dragon  Y>^as  more  rampant  than 
usual  ever  afterwards,  and,  indeed,  before  Christmas, 
reared  clean  out  of  its  crazy  frame. 

"  It  was  small  tyranny  for  a  respectable  wind  to  go 
wreaking  its  vengeance  on  such  poor  creatures  as  the 
fallen  leaves ;  but  this  wind,  happening  to  come  up  with 
a  great  heap  of  them  just  after  venting  its  humor  on  the 
insulted  Dragon,  did  so  disperse  and  scatter  them,  that 
they  fled  away,  pell-mell,  some  here,  some  there,  rolling 
over  each  other,  wliirling  round  and  round  upon  their 
thin  edges,  taking  frantic  flights  into  the  air,  and  playing 
all  manner  of  extraordinary  gambols  in  the  extremity 
of  their  distress.  Nor  was  this  enough  for  its  malicious 
fury;  for,  not  content  with  driving  them  abroad,  it 
charged  small  parties  of  them,  and  hunted  them  into  the 
wheelwright's  saw-pit,  and  below  the  planks  and  timbers 


218  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

in  the  3'ard,  and,  scatteriog  the  sawdust  in  the  air,  it 
looked  for  them  underneath  ;  and,  when  it  did  meet  with 
any,  whew  !  how  it  drove  them  on,  and  followed  at  their 
heels ! 

"  Tlie  scared  leaves  only  flew  the  faster  for  all  this, 
and  a  giddj'  chase  it  was  ;  for  they  got  into  unfrequented 
places,  where  there  was  no  outlet,  and  where  their  pur- 
suer kept  them  eddying  round  and  round  at  his  pleasure  ; 
and  tliey  crept  under  the  eaves  of  houses ;  and  clung 
tightly  to  the  sides  of  hay-ricks,  like  bats  ;  and  tore  in 
at  open  chamber- windows  ;  and  cowered  close  to  hedges  ; 
and,  in  short,  went  anywhere  for  safety.  But  the  oddest 
feat  they  achieved  was  to  take  advantage  of  the  sudden 
opening  of  Mr.  Pecksniff's  front-door,  to  dash  wildly 
into  his  passage,  whither  the  wind,  following  close  upon 
them,  and  finding  the  back-door  open,  incontinently 
blew  out  the  lighted  candle  held  by  Miss. Pecksniff,  and 
slammed  the  front-door  against  Mr.  Pecksniff,  who  was 
at  that  moment  entering,  with  such  violence,  that,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  he  lay  on  his  back  at  the  bottom  of 
the  steps.  Being  by  this  time  weary  of  such  trifling  per- 
formances, the  boisterous  rover  hurried  away  rejoicing, 
roaring  over  moor  and  meadow,  hill  and  flat,  until  it  got 
out  to  sea,  where  it  met  with  other  winds  similarly  dis- 
posed, and  made  a  night  of  it." 


A  fine  word-picture,  too,  is  the  opening  of  that  chap-     J 
ter,  "  the  burden  whereof  is,  '  Ilail,  Columbia  ! '  " 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  219 

Thus  it  reads  :  — 

"  A  dark  and  dreary  night ;  people  nestling  in  their 
beds,  or  circling  late  about  the  fire  ;  Want,  colder  than 
Charity,  shivering  at  the  street-corners  ;  church-towers 
humming  with  the  faint  vibration  of  their  own  tongues, 
but  newly  resting  from  the  ghostly  preachment  '  One  ! ' 
the  earth  covered  with  a  sable  pall  as  for  the  burial  of 
yesterday  ;  the  clumps  of  dark  trees,  its  giant  plumes  of 
funeral-feathers,  waving  sadly  to  and  fro, — all  hushed,  all 
noiseless,  and  in  deep  repose,  save  the  swift  clouds  that 
skim  across  the  moon,  and  the  cautious  wind,  as,  creep- 
ing after  them  upon  the  ground,  it  stops  to  listen,  and 
goes  rustling  on,  and  stops  again,  and  follows,  like  a" 
savage  on  the  trail. 

"Whither  go  the  clouds  and  wind  so  eagerly?  If, 
like  guilty  spirits,  they  repair  to  some  dread  conference 
with  powers  like  themselves,  in  what  wild  regions  do 
the  elements  hold  council,  or  where  unbend  in  terrible 
disport  ? 

"  Here,  free  from  that  cramped  prison  called  the 
earth,  and  out  upon  the  waste  of  waters.  Here,  roar- 
ing, raging,  shrieking,  howling,  all  night  long.  Hither 
come  the  sounding  voices  from  the  caverns  on  the  coast 
of  that  small  island,  sleeping,  a  thousand  miles  away, 
so  quietly  in  the  midst  of  angry  waves  ;  and  hither,  to 
meet  them,  rush  the  blasts  from  unknown  desert  places 
of  the  world.  Here,  in  the  fury  of  their  unchecked 
liberty,  they  storm  and  buffet  with  each  other  until  the 


220  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

sea,  lashed  into  passion  like  their  own,  leaps  up  in 
ravings  mightier  than  theirs,  and  the  whole  scene  is 
madness. 

"  On,  on,  on,  over  the  countless  miles  of  angry  space, 
roll  the  long,  heaving  billows.  Mountains  and  caves  are 
here,  and  yet  are  not ;  for  what  is  now  the  one  is  now 
the  other ;  then  all  is  but  a  boiling  heap  of  rushing 
water.  Pursuit  and  flight,  and  mad  return  of  wave  on 
wave,  and  savage  struggle,  ending  in  a  spouting-up  of 
foam  that  whitens  the  black  night ;  incessant  change 
of  place  and  form  and  hue,  constancy  in  nothing,  but 
eternal  strife  ;  on,  on,  on,  they  roll,  and  darker  grows 
the  night,  and  louder  howls  the  wind,  and  more  clam- 
orous and  fierce  become  the  million  voices  in  the  sea, 
when  the  wild  cry  goes  forth  upon  the  storm,  '  A  ship  ! ' 

"  Onward  she  comes,  in  gallant  combat  -with  the  ele- 
ments, her  tall  masts  trembling,  and  her  timbers  starting 
on  the  strain ;  onward  she  comes,  now  higli  u2:)on  the 
curhng  billows,  now  low  down  in  the  hollows  of  the 
sea,  as  hiding  for  the  moment  from  its  fury ;  and  every 
storm-voice  in  the  air  and  water  cries  more  loudly  yet, 
'  A  ship  ! ' 

"  Still  she  comes  striving  on  ;  and,  at  her  boldness  and 
the  spreading  cry,  the  angry  waves  rise  up  above  each 
other's  hoary  heads  to  look ;  and  round  about  the  vessel, 
far  as  the  mariners  on  the  decks  can  pierce  into  the 
gloom,  they  press  upon  lier,  forcing  each  other  down, 
and   starting    up,    and   rushing   forward  from   afar,  in 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  221 

dreadful  curiosit}^  Hig'li  over  her  they  break,  and 
round  her  surge  and  roar,  and,  giving  place  to  others, 
moaningiy  depart,  and  dash  themselves  to  fragments  in 
their  baffled  anger.  Still  she  comes  onward  bravely ; 
and  though  the  eager  multitude  crowd  thick  and  fast 
upon  her  all  the  night,  and  dawn  of  day  discovers  the 
mitiring  train  yet  bearing  down  upon  the  ship  in  an 
eternity  of  troubled  water,  onward  she  comes,  with  dim 
lights  burning  in  her  hull,  and  people  there  asleep ;  as 
if  no  deadly  element  were  peering  in  at  every  seam  and 
chink,  and  no  drowned  seaman's  grave,  with  but  a  plank 
to  cover  it,  were  yawning  in  the  unfathomable  depths 
below." 

Sairey  Gamp  appears  in  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit ;  "  and 
as  the  author  of  this  memorial  volume  had  the  great 
pleasure  of  hearing  Mr.  Dickens  read  this  himself  in 
Tremont  Temple,  Boston,  a  place  is  here  assigned  to  tliis 
humorous  sketch  with  more  than  usual  satisfaction. 

"  Mr.  Pecksniff,  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  applied 
himself  to  the  knocker ;  but,  at  the  first  double  knock, 
every  window  in  the  street  became  ahve  with  female 
heads ;  and,  before  he  could  repeat  the  performance, 
whole  troops  of  married  ladies  (some  about  to  trouble 
Llrs.  Gamp  themselves  very  shortly)  came  flocking 
round  the  steps,  all  crying  out  with  one  accord,  and 
with  uncommon  interest,  '  Knock   at  the  winder,  sir. 


222  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

knock  at  the  winder!    Lord  bless  you,  don't  lose   no 
more  time  than  yon  can  help :  knock  at  the  winder  ! ' 

"  Acting  upon  this  suggestion,  and  borrowing  the 
driver's  whip  for  the  purpose,  INIr.  Pecksniff  soon  made 
a  commotion  among  the  first-floor  flower-pots,  and 
roused  Mrs.  Gamp,  whose  voice  —  to  the  great  satisfac- 
tion of  the  matrons  —  was  heard  to  say,  '  I'm  coming.' 

"  '  He's  as  pale  as  a  muffin,'  said  one  lady,  in  allusion 
to  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

"  '  So  he  ought  to  be,  if  he's  the  feelings  of  a  man,' 
observed  another. 

"  A  thu"d  lady  (with  her  arms  folded)  said  she  wished 
lie  had  chosen  any  other  time  for  fetching  Mrs.  Gamp ; 
but  it  always  happened  so  with  her. 

"  It  gave  Mr.  Pecksniff  much  uneasiness  to  find,  from 
these  remarks,  that  he  was  supposed  to  have  come  to 
Mrs.  Gamp  upon  an  errand  touching,  not  the  close  of 
life,  but  the  other  end.  Mrs.  Gamp  herself  was  under 
the  same  impression ;  for,  throwing  open  the  window, 
she  cried  behind  the  curtains,  as  she  hastily  attired  her- 
self, — 

"  '  Is  it  Mrs.  Perkins  ?  ' 

"  '  No  ! '  returned  Mr.  Pecksniff  sharply.  '  Nothing 
of  the  sort.' 

"  '  What,  Mr.  Whilks  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Gamp.  '  Don't 
say  it's  you,  ]Mr.  Whilks,  and  that  poor  creetur  JMrs. 
Whilks  witli  not  even  a  pincushion  ready.  Don't  say 
it's  you,  Mr.  Whilks  I ' 


CriARLES    DICKENS.  223 

«  '  It  isn't  Mr.  Whilks,'  said  Pecksniff.  '  I  don't  know 
the  man.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  A  gentleman  is  dead ; 
and,  some  person  being  wanted  in  the  house,  you  have 
been  recommended  by  Mr.  Mould  the  undertaker.' 

"  As  she  was  by  this  time  in  a  condition  to  appear, 
Mrs.  Gamp,  who  had  a  face  for  all  occasions,  looked  out 
of  the  window  with  her  mourning-countenance,  and 
said  she  would  be  down  directly.  But  the  matrons 
took  it  very  ill,  that  Mr.  Pecksniff 's  mission  was  of  so 
unimportant  a  kind :  and  the  lady  with  her  arms  folded 
rated  him  in  good  round  terms,  signifying  that  she  would 
be  glad  to  know  what  be  meant  by  terrifying  delicate 
females  '  with  his  corpses  ; '  and  giving  it  as  her  opinion 
that  he  was  quite  ugly  enough  to  know  better.  The 
other  ladies  were  not  at  all  behindhand  in  expressing 
similar  sentiments ;  and  the  children,  of  whom  some 
scores  had  now  collected,  hooted  and  defied  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff quite  savagely.  So,  when  Mrs.  Gamp  appeared, 
the  unoffending  gentleman  was  glad  to  hustle  her  with 
very  little  ceremony  into  the  cabriolet,  and  drive  off, 
overwhelmed  with  popular  execration. 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  had  a  large  bundle  with  her,  a  pair  of 
pattens,  and  a  species  of  gig-umbrella;  the  latter  ar- 
ticle in  color  like  a  faded  leaf,  except  where  a  circular 
patch  of  a  lively  blue  had  been  dexterously  let  in  at  tlie 
top.  She  was  much  flurried  by  the  haste  she  had  made, 
and  labored  under  the  most  erroneous  views  of  cabrio- 
lets, which  she  appeared  to  confound  with  mail-coaches 


224  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

or  stage-wagons  ;  inasmuch  as  she  was  constantly  en- 
deavoring for  the  first  half-mile  to  force  her  luggage 
through  the  little  front-window,  and  clamoring  to  the 
driver  to  '  put  it  in  the  boot.'  When  she  was  disabused 
of  this  idea,  her  whole  being  resolved  itself  into  an  ab- 
sorbing anxiety  about  her  pattens,  with  which  she  played 
innumerable  games  at  quoits  on  Mr.  Pecksniff's  legs. 
It  was  not  until  they  were  close  upon  the  house  of 
mourning,  that  she  had  enough  composure  to  observe,  — 

'' '  And  so  the  gentleman's  dead,  sir  ?  Ah  !  The  more's 
the  pity.'  She  didn't  even  know  his  name.  ^  But  it's 
what  we  must  all  come  to.  It's  as  certain  as  being  born, 
except  that  we  can't  make  our  calculations  as  exact. 
Ah  I    Poor  dear ! ' 

"She  was  a  fat  old  woman,  this  Mrs.  Gamp,  with  a 
husky  voice  and  a  moist  eye,  which  she  had  a  remarka- 
ble power  of  turning  up,  and  only  showing  the  white 
of  it.  Having  very  little  neck,  it  cost  her  some  trouble 
to  look  over  herself,  if  one  may  say  so,  at  those  to 
whom  she  talked.  She  wore  a  very  rusty  black  gov/n, 
rather  the  worse  for  snuff,  and  a  shawl  and  bonnet  to 
correspond.  In  these  dilapidated  articles  of  dress,  she 
had,  on  principle,  arrayed  herself,  time  out  of  mind,  on 
such  occasions  as  the  present ;  for  this  at  once  expressed 
a  decent  amount  of  veneration  for  the  deceased,  and  in- 
vited the  next  of  kin  to  present  her  with  a  fresher  suit 
of  weeds,  —  an  appeal  so  frequently  successful,  that  the 
very  fetch   and  ghost  of  Mrs.  Gamp,  bonnet  and  all, 


\ 
I 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  225 

luiglit  be  seen  hanging  up,  any  hour  in  the  day,  in  at 
least  a  dozen  of  the  second-hand-clothes  shops  about 
Holborn.  The  face  of  Mrs.  Gamp  —  the  nose  in  par- 
ticular —  was  somewhat  red  and  swollen ;  and  it  was 
chfficult  to  enjoy  her  society  without  becoming  conscious 
of  a  smell  of  spirits.  Like  most  persons  who  have  at- 
tained to  great  eminence  in  their  profession,  she  took 
to  hers  very  kindly ;  insomuch,  that,  setting  aside  her 
natural  predilections  as  a  woman,  she  went  to  a  lying-in 
or  a  laying-out  with  equal  zest  and  relish. 

" '  Ah  !  '  repeated  Mrs.  Gamp ;  for  it  was  always  a 
safe  sentiment  in  cases  of  mourning,  —  '  ah,  dear  !  When 
Gamp  was  summoned  to  his  long  home,  and  I  see  him  a- 
Ijdng  in  Guy's  Hospital  with  a  penny -piece  on  each  eye, 
and  his  wooden  leg  under  his  left  arm,  I  thought  I  should 
have  fainted  away  ;  but  I  bore  up.' 

"  If  certain  whispers  current  in  the  Kingsgate-street 
cu'cles  had  any  truth  in  them,  she  had  indeed  borne  up 
surprisingly,  and  had  exerted  such  uncommon  fortitude 
as  to  dispose  of  Mr.  Gamp's  remains  for  the  benefit  of 
science.  But  it  should  be  added,  in  fairness,  that  this 
liad  happened  twenty  years  before  ;  and  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gamp  had  long  been  separated,  on  the  ground  of 
incompatibility  of  temper  in  their  diink. 

"  '  You  have  become  indifferent  since  then,  I  sup- 
pose ? '  said  Mr.  Pecksniff.  '  Use  is  second  nature, 
Mrs.  Gamp.' 

"  '  You  may  well  say  second  nater,  sir,'  returned  that 

15 


226  LIB^E   AND    WRITINGS  OF 

lady.  '  One's  first  ways  is  to  find  sich  things  a  trial  to 
the  feelings,  and  so  is  one's  lasting  custom.  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  nerve  a  little  sip  of  liquor  gives  me  (I  never  was 
able  to  do  more  than  taste  it),  I  never  could  go  through 
with  what  I  sometimes  has  to  do.  "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says 
at  the  very  last  case  as  ever  I  acted  in,  which  it  was  but 
a  young  person,  —  "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says, "  leave  the  bottle 
on  the  chimney-piece,  and  don't  ask  me  take  none,  but 
let  me  put  my  lips  to  it  when  I  am  so  dispoged  ;  and  then 
I  will  do  what  I'm  engaged  to  do,  according  to  the  best 
of  my  ability." —  "  Mrs.  Gamp,"  she  says  in  answer,  "  if 
ever  there  was  a  sober  creetur  to  be  got  at  eighteen 
pence  a  day  for  working-people,  and  three-and-six  for 
gentlefolks," — night- watching,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp  with 
emphasis,  '  being  a  extra  charge,  — "  you  are  that  in- 
wallable  person."  —  "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says  to  her,  "  don't 
name  the  charge  ;  for,  if  1  could  afford  to  lay  all  my  feller- 
creeturs  out  for  nothink,  I  would  gladly  do  it,  sich  is  the 
love  I  bears  'em.  Bat  what  I  always  says  to  them  as 
has  the  management  of  matters,  Mrs.  Harris  "  (here  she 
kept  her  eye  on  Mr.  Pecksniff)  "  be  they  gents,  or  be 
they  ladies,  is,  Don't  ask  me  whether  I  won't  take  none, 
or  whether  I  will,  but  leave  the  bottle  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  let  me  put  my  lips  to  it  when  I  am  so  dis- 
poged." ' 

"  The  conclusion  of  this  affecting  narrative  brought 
them  to  the  house.  In  the  passage,  they  encountered 
Mr.  ]\lould  the  undertaker,  —  a  little  elderly  gentleman, 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  227 

bakl,  and  in  a  suit  of  black,  with  a  note-book  in  his 
hand,  a  massive  gokl  watch-chain  danghng  from  his  fob, 
and  a  face  in  whicli  a  queer  attempt  at  melancholy  was 
at  odds  with  a  smirk  of  satisfaction ;  so  that  he  looked 
as  a  man  might,  who,  in  the  very  act  of  smacking  his 
lips  over  choice  old  wine,  tried  to  make  beheve  it  was 
physic. 

"  '  Well,  Mrs.  Gamp  ;  and  how  are  you,  Mrs.  Gamp  ?  ' 
said  this  gentleman  in  a  voice  as  soft  as  his  step. 

"  '  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,'  dropping  a  courtesy. 

"  '  You'll  be  very  particular  here,  Mrs.  Gamp.  This 
is  not  a  common  case,  Mrs.  Gamp.  Let  every  thing  be 
very  nice  and  comfortable,  Mrs.  Gamp,  if  you  please,' 
said  the  undertaker,  shaking  his  head  with  a  solemn  air. 

"  '  It  shall  be,  sir,'  she  replied,  courtesying  again.  '  You 
knows  me  of  old,  sir,  I  hope.' 

" '  I  hope  so  too,  Mrs.  Gamp,'  said  the  undertaker  ; 
'  and  I  think  so  also.'  Mrs.  Gamp  courtesied  again. 
'  This  is  one  of  the  most  impressive  cases,  sir,'  he  con- 
tinued, addressing  Mr.  Pecksniff,  '  that  I  have  seen  in 
the  whole  course  of  my  professional  experience.' 

"  '  Indeed,  Mr.  Mould ! '  cried  that  gentleman. 

"  '  Such  affectionate  regret,  sir,  I  never  saw.  There 
is  no  limitation,  there  is  positively  xo  limitation,'  —  open- 
ing his  eyes  wide,  and  standing  on  tiptoe,  — '  in  point  of 
expense.  I  have  orders,  sir,  to  put  on  my  whole  estab- 
lishment of  mutes, — and  mutes  come  very  dear,  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff, not  to  mention  their  drink,  —  to  provide  silver- 


228  LIFE   AXD   WHITINGS   OF 

plated  handles  of  the  very  best  description,  ornamented 
with  angels'  heads  from  the  most  expensive  dies ;  to  be 
perfectly  profuse  in  feathers  ;  in  short,  sir,  to  turn  out 
something  absolutely  gorgeous.' 

"  '  My  friend  Mr.  Jonas  is  an  excellent  man,'  said 
Mr.  Pecksniff. 

" '  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  what  is  filial  in  my  time, 
sir,'  retorted  Mould,  '  and  what  is  unfilial  too.  It  is  our 
lot.  We  come  into  the  knowledge  of  those  secrets. 
But  an}'  thing  so  filial  as  this,  any  thing  so  honorable  to 
human  nature,  so  calculated  to  reconcile  all  of  us  to  the 
world  we  live  in,  never  yet  came  under  my  observation. 
It  onl}'-  proves,  sir,  what  was  so  forcibly  observed  by  the 
lamented  theatrical  poet,  —  buried  at  Stratford,  —  that 
there  is  good  in  every  thing.' 

"  '  It  is  very  pleasant  to  hear  you  say  so,  Mr.  Mould,' 
observed  Pecksniff."  .  .  . 

"  Mrs.  Gamp,  with  the  bottle  on  one  knee,  and  a  glass 
on  the  other,  sat  upon  a  stool,  shaking  her  head  for  a 
long  time,  until,  in  a  moment  of  abstraction,  she  poured 
out  a  dram  of  spirits,  and  raised  it  to  her  lips.  It  was 
succeeded  by  a  second,  and  by  a  third ;  and  then  her 
eyes  —  either  in  the  sadness  of  her  reflections  uj)on  Hfe 
and  death,  or  in  her  admiration  of  the  liquor  —  were  so 
turned  up  as  to  be  cpiite  invisible.  But  she  shook  her 
head  still." 

Mrs.  Gamp's  failings  evidently  did  not  "lean  to  vir- 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  2l29 

tue's  side,"  or  to  the  side  of  temperance,  if  we  may 
judge  from  facts  rather  than  her  own  statements.  When 
she  called  afterwards  at  Mr.  Mould's,  a  glass  of  rum  is 
offered  her. 

'•'  Mrs.  Gamp  took  the  chair  that  was  nearest  the  door, 
and,  casting  up  her  eyes  towards  the  ceiling,  feigned  to 
be  wholly  insensible  to  the  fact  of  a  glass  of  rum  being 
in  preparation,  until  it  was  placed  in  her  hand  by  one 
of  the  young  ladies ;  when  she  exhibited  the  greatest 
surprise. 

" '  A  thing,'  she  said,  '  as  hardly  ever,  Mrs.  Mould, 
occurs  with  me,  unless  it  is  when  I  am  indispoged,  and 
find  my  half  a  pint  of  porter  settling  heavy  on  the  chest. 
Mrs.  Harris  often  and  often  says  to  me,  "  Sairey  Gamp," 
she  says,  "you  raly  do  amaze  me  !  "  —  "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I 
says  to  her,  "  why  so  ?  Give  it  a  name,  I  beg." — "  Telling 
the  truth,  then,  ma'am,"  says  Mrs.  Harris,  and  "  shaming 
him  as  shall  be  nameless  betwixt  you  and  me,  never  did 
I  think,  till  I  know'd  you,  as  any  woman  could  sick- 
nurse  and  monthly  likeways,  on  the  httle  that  you  takes 
to  drink."  —  "Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says  to  her,  "none  on  us 
knows  what  we  can  do  till  we  tries  ;  and  wunst,  when 
me  and  Gamp  kept  ouse,  I  thought  so  too.  But  now,"  I 
says,  "  my  half  a  pint  of  porter  fully  satisfies,  perwisin', 
Mrs.  Harris,  that  it  is  brought  reg'lar,  and  draw'd  mild. 
Whether  I  sicks  or  monthlies,  ma'am,  I  hope  I  does  my 
duty  ;  but  I  am  but  a  poor  woman,  and  I  earns  my  living 


230  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

hard :  therefore  I  do  require  it,  Avhich  I  makes  confession, 
to  be  brought  reg'hxr,  and  draw'd  mild."  ' 

"  The  precise  connection  between  these  observations 
and  the  glass  of  rum  did  not  appear  ;  for  Mrs.  Gamp, 
proposing  as  a  toast,  '  The  best  of  lucks  to  all ! '  took 
off  the  dram  in  quite  a  scientific  manner,  without  any 
further  remarks. 

"  '  And  what's  your  news,  Mrs.  Gamp  ?  '  asked  Mould 
again,  as  that  lady  wiped  her  lips  upon  her  shawl,  and 
nibbled  a  corner  off  a  soft  biscuit,  which  she  appeared  to 
carry  in  her  pocket  as  a  provision  against  contingent 
drams.     '  How's  Mr.  Chuffey  ?  ' 

"  '  jNIr.  Chuffey,  sir,'  she  replied,  '  is  jest  as  usual :  he 
an't  no  better,  and  he  an't  no  worse.  I  take  it  very  Idnd 
in  the  gentleman  to  have  wrote  up  to  you,  and  said,  "  Let 
Mrs.  Gamp  take  care  of  him  till  I  come  home ; "  but 
ev'ry  think  he  does  is  kind.  There  an't  a  many  like 
him :  if  there  was,  we  shouldn't  want  no  churches.' 

" '  What  do  you  want  to  speak  to  me  about,  Mrs. 
Gamp  ?  '  said  Mould,  coming  to  the  point. 

"  '  Jest  this,  sir,'  Mrs.  Gamp  returned,  '  with  thanks 
to  you  for  asking.  There  is  a  gent,  sir,  at  the  Biill  in 
Holborn,  as  has  been  took  ill  there,  and  is  bad  abed. 
They  have  a  day-nurse  as  Avas  recommended  from  Bar- 
tholomew's ;  and  well  I  knows  her,  j\Ir.  INIould,  her  name 
bein'  Mrs.  Prig,  —  the  best  of  creeturs.  But  she  is  other- 
ways  engaged  at  night ;  and  they  are  in  wants  of  night- 
watching  :  consequent  she  says  to  them,  having  reposed 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  231 

the  greatest  friendliness  in  me  for  twenty  year,  "  The 
soberest  person  going,  and  the  best  of  blessings  in  a  sick- 
room, is  Mrs.  Gamp.  Send  a  boy  to  Kingsgate  Street," 
she  says,  "  and  snap  her  up  at  any  price ;  for  Mrs.  Gamp 
is  worth  her  weight  and  more  in  goldian  guineas."  My 
landlord  brings  the  message  down  to  me,  and  says,  "  Bein' 
in  a  light  place  where  you  are,  and  this  job  promising  so 
well,  why  not  unite  the  two  ?  " — "  No,  sir,"  I  says,  "  not 
unbeknown  to  Mr.  Mould ;  and  therefore  do  not  think 
it.  But  I  will  go  to  Mr.  Mould,"  I  says,  "  and  ask  him, 
if  you  like."  '  Here  she  looked  sideways  at  the  under- 
taker, and  came  to  a  stop. 

"  '  Night-watching,  eh  ?  '  said  Mould,  rubbing  his  chin. 

"  '  From  eight  o'clock  till  eight,  sir.  I  will  not  deceive 
you,'  Mrs.  Gamp  rejoined." 

The  undertaker  consented ;  and  Sairey  Gamp  went  to 
the  place  indicated.  Arrived,  she  felt  the  necessity  of 
advancing,  bundle  in  hand,  and  introducing  herself. 

"  '  The  night-nurse,'  she  observed,  '  from  Kingsgate 
Street,  well  beknown  to  Mvs.  Prig,  the  day-nurse,  and 
the  best  of  creeturs.  How  is  the  jioor  dear  gentleman, 
to-night  ?  If  he  an't  no  better  yet,  still  that  is  what 
must  be  expected  and  prepared  for.  It  an't  the  fust 
time  by  a  many  score,  ma'am,'  dropping  a  courtesy  to  the 
landlady,  '  that  Mrs.  Pjfig  and  me  has  nussed  together, 
turn  and  turn  about,  —  one  off,  one  on.    We  knows  each 


232  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

other's  ways,  and  often  gives  relief  when  others  fail.  M 
Our  charges  is  but  low,  sir,'  Mrs.  Gamp  addressed  her- 
self to  John  on  this  head,  '  considerin'  the  nater  of  our 
painful  dooty.    If  they  wos  made  accordin'  to  our  wishes, 
they  would  be  easy  paid.' 

"  Regarding  herself  as  having  now  delivered  her  inau- 
guration-address, Mrs.  Gamp  courtesied  all  round,  and 
signified  her  wish  to  be  conducted  to  the  scene  of  her 
official  duties.  The  chambermaid  led  her  through  a  va- 
riet}'  of  intricate  passages,  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and, 
pointing  at  length  to  a  solitary  door  at  the  end  of  a 
galler}-,  informed  her  that  yonder  was  the  chamber  where 
the  patient  lay.  That  done,  she  hurried  off  with  all  the 
speed  she  could  make. 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  traversed  the  gallery  in  a  great  heat  from 
having  carried  her  large  bundle  up  so  many  stairs,  and 
tapped  at  the  door,  which  was  immediately  opened  by 
Mrs.  Prig,  bonneted  and  shawled,  and  all  impatience  to 
be  gone.  IMrs.  Prig  was  of  the  Gamp  build,  but  not  so 
fat ;  and  her  voice  was  deeper,  and  more  like  a  man's. 
She  had  also  a  beard. 

"  '  I  began  to  think  you  warn't  a-coming,'  INIrs.  Prig 
observed,  in  some  displeasure. 

"  '  It  shall  be  made  good  to-morrow  night,'  said  Mrs. 
Gamp,  '  /ionorable.  I  had  to  go  and  fetch  my  things.' 
She  had  begun  to  make  signs  of  inquiry  in  reference  to 
the  position  of  the  patient,  and  his  overhearing  them,  — 
for  there  was  a  screen  before  the  door,  —  when  Mrs.  Prig 
settled  that  point  easily. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  233 

"  '  Oh  !  '  she  said  aloud,  '  he's  quiet ;  but  his  wits  is 
gone.     It  an't  no  matter  wot  you  say.' 

"  '  Any  thin'  to  tell  afore  you  goes,  my  dear  ? '  asked 
Mrs.  Gamp,  setting  her  bundle  down  inside  the  door, 
and  looking  affectionately  at  her  partner. 

"  '  The  pickled  salmon,'  Mrs.  Prig  replied,  '  is  quite 
delicious.  I  can  partick'ler  recommend  it.  Don't  have 
nothink  to  say  to  the  cold  meat;  for  it  tastes  of  the  stable. 
The  drinks  is  all  good.' 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  expressed  herself  much  gratified. 

"  '  The  phj^sic  and  them  things  is  on  the  drawers  and 
manldeshelf,' said  Mrs.  Prig  cursorily.  'He  took  his 
last  slime-draught  at  seven.  The  easy-chair  an't  soft 
enough.     You'll  want  his  piller.' 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  thanked  her  for  these  hints,  and,  giving 
her  a  friendly  good-night,  held  the  door  open  until  she 
had  disappeared  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery.  Hav- 
ing thus  performed  the  hospitable  duty .  of  seeing  her 
safely  off,  she  shut  it,  locked  it  on  the  inside,  took  up 
her  bundle,  walked  round  the  screen,  and  entered  on 
her  occupation  of  the  sick-chamber. 

" '  A  little  dull,  but  not  so  bad  as  might  be,'  Mrs. 
Gamp  remarked.  '  I'm  glad  to  see  a  parapidge,  in  case 
of  fire,  and  lots  of  roofs  and  chimney-pots  to  walk  upon.' 

"  It  will  be  seen,  from  these  remarks,  that  Mrs.  Gamp 
was  looldng  out  of  window.  When  she  had  exhausted 
the  prospect,  she  tried  the  easy-chair,  which  she  indig- 
nantly declared  was  '  harder  than  a  brickbadge.'     Next 


234  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

she  pursued  her  researches  among  the  physic  bottles, 
glasses,  jugs,  and  tea-cuj^s  ;  and,  when  she  had  entirely 
satisfied  her  curiosity  on  all  these  subjects  of  investiga- 
tion, she  untied  her  bonnet-strings,  and  strolled  up  to 
the  bedside  to  take  a  look  at  the  patient. 

"  A  young  man,  dark,  and  not  ill-looking,  with  long 
black  hair,  that  seemed  the  blacker  for  the  whiteness  of 
the  bed-clothes.  His  eyes  were  partly  open ;  and  he 
never  ceased  to  roll  his  head  from  side  to  side  upon  the 
pillow,  keeping  his  body  almost  quiet.  He  did  not  utter 
words  ;  but  every  now  and  then  gave  vent  to  an  expres- 
sion of  impatience  or  fatigue,  sometimes  of  surprise ; 
and  still  his  restless  head  —  oh,  weary,  weary  hour  !  — 
went  to  and  fro  without  a  moment's  intermission. 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  solaced  herself  with  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
stood  looking  at  him  with  her  head  inclined  a  little  side- 
ways, as  a  connoisseur  might  gaze  upon  a  doubtful  work 
of  art.  By  degrees,  a  horrible  remembrance  of  one 
branch  of  her  calling  took  possession  of  the  woman  ;  and, 
stooping  down,  she  pinned  his  wandering  arms  against  his 
sides  to  see  how  he  would  look  if  laid  out  as  a  dead  man. 
Hideous  as  it  may  appear,  her  fingers  itched  to  compose 
his  limbs  in  that  last  marble  attitude. 

"  '  Ah  ! '  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  walking  away  from  the  bed, 
'  he'd  make  a  lovely  corpse.' 

"  She  now  proceeded  to  unpack  her  bundle  ;  lighted 
a  candle  with  the  aid  of  a  fire-box  on  the  drawers  ; 
filled  a  small  kettle  as  a  preliminary  to  refreshing  her- 


I 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  235 

self  with  a  cup  of  tea  in  tlie  course  of  the  night ;  laid 
what  she  called  '  a  little  bit  of  fire,'  for  the  same  philan- 
thropic purpose  ;  and  also  set  forth  a  small  teaboard, 
that  nothing  might  be  wanting  for  her  comfortable  en- 
joyment. These  preparations  occupied  so  long,  that, 
when  they  were  brought  to  a  conclusion,  it  was  high 
time  to  think  about  supper :  so  she  rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  it. 

"  '  I  think,  young  woman,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp  to  the  as- 
sistant chambermaid,  in  a  tone  expressive  of  weakness, 
'  that  I  could  pick  a  little  bit  of  pickled  salmon,  with  a 
nice  little  sprig  of  fennel,  and  a  sprinkling  of  white  pep- 
per. I  takes  new  bread,  my  dear,  with  jest  a  httle  pat 
of  fresh  butter,  and  a  mossel  of  cheese.  In  case  there 
should  be  such  a  thing  as  a  cowcumber  in  the  'ouse,  will 
you  be  so  kind  as  bring  it?  for  I'm  rather  partial  to  'em ; 
and  they  does  a  world  of  good  in  a  sick-room.  If  they 
draws  the  Brighton  Old  Tipper  here,  I  takes  that  ale  at 
night,  my  love  ;  it  bein'  considered  wakeful  by  the  doc- 
tors. And  whatever  you  do,  young  woman,  don't  bring 
more  than  a  shilling's-worth  of  gin  and  water  warm 
when  I  rings  the  bell  a  second  time  ;  for  that  is  always 
my  allowance,  and  I  never  takes  a  drop  beyond.' 

"  Having  preferred  these  moderate  requests,  Mrs. 
Gamp  observed,  that  she  woidd  stand  at  the  door  until 
the  order  was  executed,^  to  the  end  tliat  the  patient 
might  not  be  disturbed  by  her  opening  it  a  second  time  ; 
and  therefore  she  would  thank  the  young  woman  to 
'  look  sharp.' 


236  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OP 

"  A  tray  was  brought  with  every  thing  upon  it,  even 
to  the  cuctimber ;  and  Mrs.  Gamp  accordingly  sat  down 
to  eat  and  di-ink  in  high  good-humor.  The  extent  to 
which  she  availed  herself  of  the  vinegar,  and  supped 
up  that  refreshing  fluid  with  the  blade  of  her  knife,  can 
scarcely  be  expressed  in  narrative. 

"  '  Ah  ! '  sighed  Mrs.  Gamp,  as  she  meditated  over  the 
warm  shilling's-worth,  '  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  —  liv- 
ing in  a  wale  —  to  be  contented  !  What  a  blessed  thing 
it  is  to  make  sick  people  happy  in  their  beds,  and  never 
mind  one's  self  as  long  as  one  can  do  a  service  !  I  don't 
believe  a  finer  cowcumber  was  every  grow'd.  I'm  sure 
I  never  see  one.' 

"  She  moralized  in  the  same  vein  until  her  glass  was 
empty,  and  then  administered  the  patient's  medicine  by 
the  simple  process  of  clutching  his  windpipe  to  make 
him  gasp,  and  immediately  pouring  it  down  his  throat. 

" '  I  a'most  forgot  the  piller,  I  declare  ! '  said  Mrs. 
Gamp,  drawing  it  away.  '  There  !  Now  he's  comforta- 
ble as  he  can  be,  /'m  sure  !  I  must  try  to  make  myself 
as  much  so  as  I  can.' 

"  With  this  view,  she  went  about  the  construction  of 
an  extemporaneous  bed  in  the  easy-chair,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  the  next  easy  one  for  her  feet.  Having  formed 
the  best  couch  that  the  circumstances  admitted  of,  she 
took  out  of  her  bundle  a  yellow  nightcap,  of  prodigious 
size,  in  shape  resembling  a  cabbage  ;  which  article  of 
dress  she  fixed  and  tied  on  with  the  utmost  care,  pre- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  237 

viously  divesting  herself  of  a  row  of  bald  old  cuiis  that 
could  scarcely  be  called  false,  tliey  were  so  very  inno- 
cent of  any  thing  approacliing  to  deception.  From  the 
same  repository  she  brought  forth  a  night -jacket,  in 
which  she  also  attired  herself.  Finally,  she  produced  a 
watchman's  coat,  which  she  tied  around  her  neck  by  the 
sleeves,  so  that  she  became  two  people,  and  looked,  be- 
hind, as  if  she  were  in  the  act  of  being  embraced  by  one 
of  the  old  patrol. 

"  All  these  arrangements  made,  she  lighted  the  rush- 
light, coiled  herself  up  on  her  couch,  and  went  to  sleep. 
Ghostly  and  dark  the  room  became,  and  full  of  lowering 
shadows.  The  distant  noises  in  the  streets  were  gradu- 
ally hushed ;  the  house  was  quiet  as  a  sepulchre  ;  the 
dead  of  night  was  coffined  in  the  silent  city. 

"  Oh,  weary,  weary  hour !  Oh,  haggard  mind,  grop- 
ing darkly  through  the  past ;  incapable  of  detaching 
itself  from  the  miserable  present ;  dragging  its  heavy 
chain  of  care  through  imaginary  feasts  and  revels,  and 
scenes  of  awful  pomp  ;  seeking  but  a  moment's  rest 
among  the  long-forgotten  haunts  of  childhood,  and  the 
resorts  of  yesterdaj'" ;  and  dimly  finding  fear  and  horror 
everywhere  !  Oh,  weary,  weary  hour  !  —  what  were  the 
wanderings  of  Cain  to  these  ! 

"  Still,  without  a  moment's  interval,  the  burning  head 
tossed  to  and  fro.  Still,  from  time  to  time,  fatigue,  im- 
patience, suffering,  and  surprise  found  utterance  upon 
that  rack,  and  plainly  too,  though  never  once  in  words. 


238  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

At  length,  in  tlie  solemn  hour  of  midnight,  he  began  to 
talk,  waiting  awfully  for  answers  sometimes,  as  though 
invisible  companions  were  about  his  bed,  and  so  reply- 
ing to  their  speech,  and  questioning  again. 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  awoke,  and  sat  up  in  her  bed,  present- 
ing on  the  wall  the  shadow  of  a  gigantic  night-constable 
struggling  with  a  prisoner. 

"  '  Come  !  Hold  your  tongue  ! '  she  cried  in  sharp 
reproof.     '  Don't  make  none  of  that  noise  here  ! ' 

"  There  was  no  alteration  in  the  face,  or  in  the  inces- 
sant motion  of  the  head ;  but  he  talked  on  wildly. 

"  '  Ah ! '  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  coming  out  of  the  chair  with 
an  impatient  shiver,  '  I  thought  I  was  a-sleepin'  too 
pleasant  to  last.  The  Devil's  in  the  night,  I  think,  it's 
turned  so  chill}".' 

"  '  Don't  diink  so  much ! '  cried  the  sick  man.  '  You'll 
ruin  us  all.  Don't  you  see  how  the  fountain  sinks  ? 
Look  at  the  mark  where  the  sparkling  water  was  just 
now  ! ' 

"  '  Sparkling  water,  indeed  ! '  said  Mrs.  Gamp.  '  I'll 
have  a  sparkling  cup  o'  tea,  I  think.  I  wish  you'd  hold 
your  noise  ! ' 

"  He  burst  into  a  laugh,  which,  being  prolonged,  fell 
off  into  a  dismal  wail.  Checking  himself,  with  fierce 
inconstancy  he  began  to  count,  fast. 

"  '  One  —  two  —  three  —  four  —  five  —  six.' 

"  '  "  One,  two,  buckle  my  shoe,"  '  said  Mrs.  Gamp, 
who  was  now  on  her  knees,  lighting  the  fire  ;   '  "  three, 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  239 

four,  shut  the  door,"  —  I  wish  you'd  shut  your  mouth, 
young  man ;  "  five,  six,  picking  up  sticks."  If  I'd  got 
a  few  handy,  I  should  have  the  kettle  bihng  all  the 
sooner.' 

"  Awaiting  this  desirable  consummation,  she  sat  down 
so  close  to  the  fender  (which  was  a  high  one),  that  her 
nose  rested  upon  it ;  and  for  some  time  she  drowsily 
amused  herself  by  sliding  that  feature  backwards  and 
forwards  along  the  brass  top,  —  as  far  as  she  could  with- 
out changing  her  position  to  do  it.  She  maintained,  all 
the  while,  a  running  commentary  upon  the  wanderings 
of  the  man  in  bed. 

"  '  That  makes  five  hundred  and  twenty-one  men,  all 
dressed  alike,  and  with  the  same  distortion  on  their  faces, 
that  have  passed  in  at  the  window,  and  out  at  the  door,' 
he  cried  anxiously.  '  Look  there  I  Five  hundred  and 
twenty-two  —  twenty-three  —  twenty -four.  Do  you  see 
them  ? ' 

"'Ah!  /see  'em,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp.  'AH  the  whole 
kit  of  'em  numbered  like  hackney-coaches  ;  an't  they  ?  ' 

"  '  Touch  me  !    Let  me  be  sure  of  this.    Touch  me  ! ' 

"  '  You'll  take  your  next  draught  when  I've  made 
the  kettle  bile,'  retorted  Mrs.  Gamp  composedly ;  '  and 
you'll  be  touched  then.  You'll  be  touched  up,  too,  if 
you  don't  take  it  quiet.' 

"  '  Five  hundred  and  twenty -eight,  five  hundred  and 
twenty-nine,  five  hundred  and  thirty,  —  look  here  ! ' 

"  '  What's  the  matter  now  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 


240  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  '  Thej'^'re  coming  four  abreast,  —  each  man  with  his 
arm  intwined  in  the  next  man's,  and  his  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  "What's  that  upon  the  arm  of  every  man,  and 
on  the  flag  ?  ' 

"  '  Spiders,  p'raps,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

"  '  Crape  !  —  black  crape  !  Good  God !  why  do  they 
wear  it  outside  ?  ' 

"  '  Would  you  have  'em  carry  black  crape  in  their  iu- 
sides  ? '  Mrs.  Gamp  retorted.  '  Hold  your  noise  !  hold 
your  noise  ! ' 

"  The  fire  beginning  by  this  time  to  impart  a  grateful 
warmth,  Mrs.  Gamp  became  silent,  gradually  rubbed 
her  nose  more  and  more  slowly  along  the  top  of  the 
fender,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  doze.  She  was  awakened 
by  the  room  ringing  (as  she  fancied)  with  a  name  she 
knew,  — 

"  '  Chuzzlewit ! ' 

"  The  sound  was  so  distinct  and  real,  and  so  full  of 
agonized  entreaty,  that  Mrs.  Gamp  jumped  up  in  terror, 
and  ran  to  the  door.  She  expected  to  find  the  passage 
filled  with  people  come  to  tell  her  that  the  house  in  the 
city  had  taken  fire  :  but  the  place  was  empty ;  not  a 
soul  was  there.  She  opened  the  window,  and  looked 
out.  Dark,  dull,  dingy,  and  desolate  housetops.  As 
she  passed  to  her  seat  again,  she  glanced  at  the  patient. 
Just  the  same,  but  silent.  Mrs.  Gamp  was  so  warm 
now,  that  she  threw  off  the  watchman's  coat,  and  fanned 
herself. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  211 

"  '  It  seemed  to  make  the  weiy  bottles  ring,'  she  said. 
'  What  could  I  have  been  a-dreaming  of  ?  That  dratted 
Chuffey,  I'll  be  bound  ! ' 

"  The  supposition  was  probable  enough.  At  any  rate, 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  the  song  of  the  steaming  kettle, 
quite  restored  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Gamp's  nerves,  which 
were  none  of  the  weakest.  She  brewed  her  tea,  made 
some  buttered  toast,  and  sat  down  at  the  tea-board, 
with  her  face  to  the  fire ;  when  once  again,  in  a  tone 
more  terrible  than  that  which  had  vibrated  m  her  slum- 
bering ear,  these  words  were  shrieked  out,  — 

"  '  Chuzzlewit !  Jonas!    No!' 

"  Mrs.  Gamp  dropped  the  cup  she  was  in  the  act  of 
raising  to  her  lips,  and  turned  round  witlT  a  start  that 
made  the  little  tea-board  leap.  The  cry  had  come  from 
the  bed. 

"  It  was  bright  morning  the  next  time  Mrs.  Gamp 
looked  out  of  the  window  ;  and  the  sun  was  rising  cheer- 
fully. Lighter  and  ligliter  grew  the  sky,  and  noisier  the 
streets  ;  and  high  into  the  summer  air  uprose  the  smoke 
of  newly-kindled  fires,  until  the  busy  day  was  broad 
awake. 

"  Mrs.  Prig  relieved  punctually,  having  passed  a  good 
night  at  her  other  patient's.  Mr.  Westlock  came  at  the 
same  time ;  but  he  was  not  admitted,  the  disorder  being 
infectious.  The  doctor  came  too.  The  doctor  shook 
his  head.  It  was  all  he  could  do,  under  the  circum- 
stances;  and  he  did  it  well. 

16 


242  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  '  What  sort  of  a  night,  nurse  ?  ' 

"  '  Restless,  sir,'  said  JNIrs.  Gamp. 

"  '  Talk  much  ? ' 

"  '  Middling,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

"  '  Nothing  to  the  purpose,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

"  '  Oh,  bless  you,  no,  sir  I     Only  jargon.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  the  doctor :  '  we  must  keep  him  quiet. 
Keep  the  room  cool,  give  him  his  draughts  regularly, 
and  see  that  he's  carefully  looked  too.     That's  all ! ' 

"  '  As  long  as  Mrs.  Prig  and  me  waits  upon  him,  sir, 
no  fear  of  that,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

"  '  I  suppose,'  observed  Mrs.  Prig,  when  they  had 
courtesied  the  doctor  out,  '  there's  nothin'  new  ? ' 

"  '  Nothin'  at  all,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp.  '  He's 
rather  wearin'  in  his  talk  from  making  up  a  lot  of 
names :  elseways  you  needn't  mind  him.' 

"  '  Oh  !  I  sha'n't  mind  liim,'  Mrs.  Prig  returned.  '  I 
have  somethin'  else  to  think  of.' 

"  '  I  pays  my  debts  to-night,  you  know,  my  dear,,  and 
comes  afore  my  time,'  said  Mrs.  Gamp.  '  But  Betsey 
Prig,'  —  speaking  with  great  feeling,  and  laying  her 
hand  upon  her  arm,  '  try  the  cowcumbers,  God  bless 
you  ! '  " 

In  the  summer  of  1844,  Mr.  Dickens,  with  his  family, 
went  to  Italy,  and  remained  there  about  a  year,  having 
Genoa  for  his  headquarters.  On  his  return,  he  published 
a  volume  of  very  rea4able  sketches,  entitled  "  Pictures 


CHTARLES    DICKENS.  243 

from  Italy."  The  following  extract  from  this  book  gives 
a  fine  picture  of  his  palatial  home  in  Genoa,  and  the 
view  from  thence  :  — 

"  There  is  not  in  Italy,  they  say  (and  I  believe  them), 
a  lovelier  residence  than  the  Palazzo  Peschiere,  or  Palace 
of  the  Fishponds,  whither  we  removed  as  soon  as  our 
three  months'  tenancy  of  the  Pink  Jail  at  Albaro  had 
ceased  and  determined. 

"  It  stands  on  a  height  within  the  walls  of  Genoa,  but 
aloof  from  the  town,  surrounded  by  beautiful  gardens 
of  its  own,  adorned  with  statues,  vases,  fountains,  marble 
basins,  terraces,  walks  of  orange-trees  and  lemon-trees, 
groves  of  roses  and  camellias.  All  its  apartments  are 
beautiful  in  their  proportions  and  decorations ;  but  the 
great  hall,  some  fifty  feet  in  height,  Avith  three  large 
windows  at  the  end,  overlooking  the  whole  town  of 
Genoa,  the  harbor,  and  the  neighboring  sea,  affords  one 
of  the  most  fascinating  and  delightful  prospects  in  the 
world.  Any  house  more  cheerful  and  habitable  than 
the  great  rooms  are  within,  it  would  be  difficult  to  con- 
ceive ;  and  certainly  nothing  more  delicious  than  the 
scene  without,  in  sunshine  or  in  moonlight,  could  be 
imagined.  It  is  more  like  an  enchanted  palace  in  an 
Eastern  story  than  a  grave  and  sober  lodging. 

"  How  you  may  wander  on,  from  room  to  room,  and 
never  tire  of  the  wild  fancies  on  the  walls  and  ceilings, 
as  bright  in  their  fresh  coloring  as  if  they  had   been 


244  LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF 

painted  yesterda}'- ;  or  how  one  floor,  or  even  the  great 
hall  wliich  opens  on  eight  other  rooms,  is  a  spacious 
promenade  ;  or  how  there  are  corridors  and  bed-cham- 
bers above,  which  we  never  use,  and  rarely  visit,  and 
scarcely  know  the  way  through ;  or  how  there  is  a  view 
of  a  perfectly  different  character  on  each  of  the  four 
sides  of  the  building,  — matters  little.  But  that  prospect 
from  the  hall  is  like  a  vision  to  me.  I  go  back  to  it  in 
fancy,  as  I  have  done  in  calm  reality,  a  hundred  times 
a  day,  and  stand  there,  looldng  out,  with  the  sweet 
scents  from  the  garden  rising  up  about  me,  in  a  perfect 
di-eam  of  happiness. 

"  There  lies  all  Genoa,  in  beautiful  confusion,  with  its 
many  churches,  monasteries,  and  convents  pointing  up 
into  the  sunny  sky  ;  and  down  below  me,  just  where  the 
roofs  begin,  a  solitary  convent-parapet,  fashioned  like  a 
gallery,  with  an  iron  cross  at  the  end,  where  sometimes, 
early  in  the  morning,  I  have  seen  a  little  group  of  dark- 
veiled  nuns  ghding  sorrowfully  to  and  fro,  and  stopping 
now  and  then  to  peep  down  upon  the  waking  world  in 
which  they  have  no  part.  Old  Monte  Faccio,  brightest 
of  hills  in  good  weather,  but  sulkiest  when  storms  are 
coming  on,  is  here,  upon  the  left.  The  fort  withm  the 
walls  (the  good  king  built  it  to  command  the  town,  and 
beat  the  houses  of  the  Genoese  about  their  ears,  in  case 
they  should  be  discontented)  commands  that  height  upon 
the  right.  The  broad  sea  lies  beyond,  in  front  there  ; 
and  that  line  of  coast,  beginning  by  the  light-house,  and 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  245 

tapering  away,  a  mere  speck  in  the  rosy  distance,  is  the 
beautifal  coast-road  that  leads  to  Nice.  The  garden  near 
at  hand,  among  the  roofs  and  houses,  —  all  red  with  roses, 
and  fresh  with  little  fountains, — is  the  Acqua  Sola,  a 
public  promenade,  where  the  military  band  plays  gayl}^, 
and  the  white  veils  cluster  thick,  and  the  Genoese  nobil- 
ity ride  round  and  round  and  round,  in  state-clothes  and 
coaches  at  least,  if  not  in  absolute  wisdom.  Within  a 
stone's-throw,  as  it  seems,  the  audience  of  the  day-theatre 
sit ;  their  faces  turned  this  way.  But,  as  the  stage  is  hidden, 
it  is  very  odd,  without  a  knowledge  of  the  cause,  to  see 
their  faces  change  so  suddenly  from  earnestness  to  laugh- 
ter, and  odder  still  to  hear  the  rounds  upon  rounds  of 
applause,  rattling  in  the  evening  air,  to  which  the  cur- 
tain falls.  But,  being  Sunday  night,  they  act  their  best 
and  most  attractive  play.  And  now  the  sun  is  going 
down  in  such  magnificent  array  of  red  and  green  and 
golden  light,  as  neither  pen  nor  pencil  could  depict ; 
and,  to  the  ringing  of  the  vesper-bells,  darkness  sets  in 
at  once,  without  a  twihght.  Then  lights  begin  to  shine 
in  Genoa,  and  on  the  country-road ;  and  the  revolving 
lantern  out  at  sea  there,  flashing  for  an  instant  on  this 
palace  front  and  portico,  illuminates  it  as  if  there  were 
a  bright  moon  bursting  from  behind  a  cloud,  then 
merges  it  in  deep  obscurity.  And  this,  so  far  as  I  know, 
is  the  only  reason  why  the  Genoese  avoid  it  after  dark, 
and  think  it  haunted. 

"  M}^  memory  will  haunt  it,  many  nights,  in  time  to 


246  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

come,  but  nothing  Avorse,  I  will  engage.  The  same 
ghost  will  occasionally  sail  away,  as  I  did  one  pleasant 
autumn  evening,  into  the  bright  prospect,  and  snuff  the 
morning  air  at  Marseilles." 

A  graphic  portraiture  of  Rome,  and  of  Mr.  Dickens's 
emotions  on  viewing  the  Coliseum,  is  in  the  following 
words :  — 

"  We  entered  the  Eternal  City  at  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  on  the  30th  of  January,  by  the  Porta 
del  Popolo,  and  came  immediately  (it  was  a  dark, 
muddy  day,  and  there  had  been  heavy  rain)  on  the 
skirts  of  the  Carnival.  We  did  not  then  know  that  we 
were  only  looking  at  the  fag-end  of  the  masks,  who 
were  driving  slowly  round  and  round  the  Piazza  until 
they  could  lind  a  promising  opportunity  for  falling  into 
the  stream  of  carriages,  and  getting,  in  good  time,  into 
the  thick  of  the  festivity ;  and  coming  among  them  so 
abruptly,  all  travel-stamed  and  weary,  was  not  coming 
very  well  prepared  to  enjoy  the  scene. 

"  We  had  crossed  the  Tiber  by  the  Ponte  Molle,  two 
or  tlu-ee  miles  before.  It  had  looked  as  yellow  as  it 
ought  to  look,  and,  hurrying  on  between  its  worn-away 
and  miry  banks,  had  a  promising  aspect  of  desolation 
and  ruin.  The  masquerade  dresses  on  the  fringe  of  the 
Carnival  did  great  violence  to  this  promise.  There 
were  no  great  ruins,  210  solemn  tokens  of  antiquity,  to 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  247 

be  seen :  they  all  lie  on  the  other  side  of  the  city. 
There  seemed  to  be  long  streets  of  commonplace  shops 
and  houses,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  any  European 
town :  there  were  busy  people,  equipages,  ordinary 
walkers  to  and  fro,  a  multitude  of  chattering  strangers. 
It  was  no  more  my  Rome  —  the  Rome  of  anybody's 
fancy,  man  or  boy,  degraded  and  fallen  and  lying  asleep 
in  the  sun  among  a  heap  of  ruins  —  than  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde  in  Paris  is.  A  cloudy  sky,  a  dull,  cold 
rain,  and  muddy  streets,  I  was  prepared  for,  but  not  for 
this ;  and  I  confess  to  having  gone  to  bed  that  night  in 
a  very  indifferent  humor,  and  with  a  very  considerably 
quenched  enthusiasm. 

"  Immediately  on  going  out  next  day,  we  hurried  off 
to  St.  Peter's.  It  looked  immense  in  the  distance,  but 
distinctly  and  decidedly  small,  by  comparison,  on  a  near 
approach.  The  beauty  of  the  piazza  in  which  it  stands, 
with  its  clusters  of  exquisite  columns,  and  its  gushing 
fountains,  —  so  fresh,  so  broad  and  free  and  beautiful, 
—  nothing  can  exaggerate.  The  first  burst  of  the  inte- 
rior, in  all  its  expansive  majesty  and  glory,  and,  most  of 
all,  the  looking-up  into  the  dome,  is  a  sensation  never  to 
be  forgotten.  But  there  were  preparations  for  a  festa. 
The  pillars  of  stately  marble  were  swathed  in  some  im- 
pertinent frippery  of  red  and  yellow ;  the  altar,  and 
entrance  to  the  subterranean  chapel,  —  which  is  before 
it,  in  the  centre  of  the  church,  —  were  like  a  goldsmith's 
shop,  or  one  of  the  opening  scenes  in  a  very  lavish  panto- 


248  LiyE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

mime.  And,  thoiigli  I  had  as  high  a  sense  of  the  beaiit}^  of 
the  building  (I  hope)  as  it  is  possible  to  entertain,  I  felt 
no  very  strong  emotion.  I  have  been  infinitely  more  af- 
fected in  many  English  cathedrals,  when  the  organ  has 
been  playing,  and  in  many  English  country  churches, 
when  the  congregation  have  been  singing.  I  had  a 
much  greater  sense  of  mystery  and  wonder  in  the  Ca- 
thedral of  San  INIark  at  Venice. 

"  When  we  came  out  of  the  church  again  (we  stood 
nearly  an  hour  staring  up  into  the  dome,  and  would  not 
have  'gone  over 'the  cathedral  then  for  any  money), 
we  said  to  the  coachman,  '  Go  to  the  Coliseum.'  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  he  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  we 
went  in. 

"  It  is  no  fiction,  but  plain,  sober,  honest  truth,  to  say, 
—  so  suggestive  and  distinct  is  it  at  this  hour,  —  that, 
for  a  moment,  —  actually  in  passing  in,  —  they  who  will 
may  have  the  whole  great  pile  before  them,  as  it  used  to 
be,  with  thousands  of  eager  faces  staring  down  into  the 
arena,  and  such  a  whirl  of  strife  and  blood  and  dust 
going  on  there  as  no  language  can  describe.  Its  soli- 
tude, its  awful  beauty,  and  its  utter  desolation,  strike 
upon  the  stranger  the  next  moment  like  a  softened  sor- 
row ;  and  never  in  his  life,  perhaps,  will  he  be  so  moved 
and  overcome  by  any  sight  not  immediately  connected 
with  his  own  affections  and  afflictions. 

"  To  see  it  crumbling  there,  an  inch  a  year,  its  walls 
and  arches  overgrown  with  green ;    its  corridors  open 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  249 

to  the  day ;  tlie  long  grass  growing  in  its  porches ; 
young  trees  of  yesterday  springing  up  on  its  ragged 
parapets,  and  bearing  fruit  (chance  produce  of  the 
seeds  dropped  there  by  the  birds  who  build  their  nests 
within  its  chinks  and  crannies)  ;  —  to  see  its  Pit  of 
Fight  filled  up  with  earth,  and  the  peaceful  Cross 
planted  in  the  centre  ;  to  climb  into  its  upper  halls,  and 
look  down  on  ruin,  ruin,  ruin,  all  about  it ;  the  triumphal 
arches  of  Constantine,  Septimus  Severus,  and  Titus ; 
the  Roman  Forum  ;  the  Palace  of  the  Csesars ;  the  tem- 
ples of  the  old  religion,  —  fallen  down  and  gone,  —  is 
to  see  the  ghost  of  old  Rome  —  wicked,  wonderful  old 
city  —  haunting  the  very  ground  on  which  its  people 
trod.  It  is  the  most  impressive,  the  most  stately,  the 
most  solemn,  grand,  majestic,  mournful  sight  conceiv- 
able. Never,  in  its  bloodiest  prime,  can  the  sight  of 
the  gigantic  Coliseum,  full  and  running  over  with  the 
lustiest  life,  have  moved  one  heart  as  it  must  move  all 
who  look  upon  it  now,  a  ruin.  God  be  thanked !  a 
ruin ! 

"  As  it  tops  the  other  ruins,  standing  there,  a  moun- 
tain among  graves,  so  do  its  ancient  influences  outlive 
all  other  remnants  of  the  old  mythology  and  old  butchery 
of  Rome,  in  the  nature  of  the  fierce  and  cruel  Roman 
people.  The  Italian  face  changes  as  the  visitor  ap- 
proaches the  city :  its  beauty  becomes  devilish ;  and 
there  is  scarcely  one  countenance  in  a  hundred,  among 
the  common  people  in  the  streets,  that  would  not  be 


250  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

at  home  and  happy  m  a  renovated  CoUseum  to-mor- 
row. 

"  Here  was  Rome  indeed,  at  last,  and  such  a  Rome  as 
no  one  can  imagine  in  its  full  and  awful  grandeur.  We 
wandered  out  upon  the  Appian  Wa}',  and  then  went  on, 
through  miles  of  ruined  tombs  and  broken  walls,  with 
here  and  there  a  desolate  and  uninhabited  house,  —  past 
the  Circus  of  Romulus,  where  the  course  of  the  chariots, 
the  stations  of  the  judges,  competitors,  and  spectators, 
are  yet  as  plainly  to  be  seen  as  in  old  time  ;  past  the 
tomb  of  Ceciha  Metella;  past  all  enclosure,  hedge  or 
stake,  wall  or  fence ;  away  upon  the  open  Campagna, 
where,  on  that  side  of  Rome,  nothing  is  to  be  beheld  but 
ruin.  Except  where  the  distant  Apennines  bound  the 
view  upon  the  left,  the  whole  wide  prosj)ect  is  one  field 
of  ruin.  Broken  aqueducts  left  in  the  most  picturesque 
and  beautiful  clusters  of  arches,  broken  temples, 
broken  tombs,  —  a  desert  of  decay,  sombre  and  desolate 
beyond  all  expression,  and  with  a  history  in  every  stone 
that  strews  the  ground." 

"  Pictures  from  Italy  "  closes  with  the  following  allu- 
sion to  beautiful  Florence,  and  words  of  hope  concern- 
ing Italy,  wliich  are  characteristic  of  Dickens,  lie 
says,  — 

"  But  how  much  beauty  is  there,  when,  on  a  fair, 
clear  morning,  we  look  from  the  summit  of  a  liill  on 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  251 

Florence !  See  where  it  lies  before  us  in  a  sun-lighted 
valley,  bright  with  the  winding  Arno,  and  shut  in  bj 
swelling  hills ;  its  domes  and  towers  and  palaces  rising 
from  the  rich  country  in  a  glittering  heap,  and  shining 
in  the  sun  like  gold  ! 

"  Magnificently  stern  and  sombrQ  are  the  streets  of 
beautiful  Florence  ;  and  the  strong  old  piles  of  building 
make  such  heaps  of  shadow  on  the  ground  and  in  the 
river,  that  there  is  another  and  a  different  city  of  rich 
forms  and  fancies  always  lying  at  our  feet.  Prodigious 
palaces,  constructed  for  defence,  with  small,  distrustful 
windows  heavily  barred,  and  walls  of  great  thickness, 
formed  of  huge  masses  of  rough  stone,  frown  in  their 
old  sulky  state  on  every  street.  In  the  midst  of  the 
city  —  in  the  piazza  of  the  grand  duke,  adorned  Avith 
beautiful  statues  and  the  Fountain  of  Neptune  —  rises 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  with  its  enormous  overhanging 
battlements,  and  the  Great  Tower  that  watches  over 
the  whole  town.  In  its  court-yard,  worthy  of  the 
Castle  of  Otranto  in  its  ponderous  gloom,  is  a  massive 
staircase,  that  the  heaviest  wagon  and  the  stoutest  team 
of  horses  might  be  driven  up.  Within  it  is  a  great 
saloon,  faded  and  tarnished  in  its  stately  decorations, 
and  mouldering  by  grains,  but  recording  yet,  in  pictures 
on  its  walls,  the  triumphs  of  the  Medici  and  the  wars  of 
the  old  Florentine  people.  The  prison  is  hard  by,  in  an 
adjacent  court-yard  of  the  building,  —  a  foid  and  dismal 
place,  where  some  men  are  shut  up  close  in  small  cells 


252  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

like  ovens,  and  where  others  look  through  bars,  and  beg ; 
where  some  are  playing  draughts,  and  some  are  talking 
to  their  friends,  who  smoke,  the  while,  to  purify  the  air ; 
and  some  are  buying  fruit  and  wine  of  women-venders  ; 
and  all  are  squalid,  dirty,  and  vile  to  look  at.  '  They 
are  merry  enough,  signore,'  says  the  jailer.  '  They  are 
all  blood-stained  here,'  he  adds,  indicating  with  liis  hand 
three-fourths  of  the  whole  building.  Before  the  hour 
is  out,  an  old  man,  eighty  years  of  age,  quarrelling  over 
a  bargain  with  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  stabs  her  dead, 
in  the  market-place  full  of  bright  flowers,  and  is  brought 
in  prisoner  to  swell  the  number. 

"  Among  the  four  old  bridges  that  span  the  river,  the 
Ponte  Vecchio,  that  bridge  wliich  is  covered  with  the 
shops  of  jewellers  and  goldsmiths,  is  a  most  enchant- 
ing feature  in  the  scene.  The  space  of  one  house  in 
the  centre,  being  left  open,  the  view  beyond  is  shown 
as  in  a  frame  ;  and  that  precious  glimpse  of  sky  and 
water  and  rich  buildings,  shining  so  quietly  among  the 
huddled  roofs  and  gables  on  the  bridge,  is  exquisite 
Above  it,  the  gallery  of  the  grand  duke  crosses  the 
river.  It  was  built  to  connect  the  two  great  palaces  by 
a  secret  passage  ;  and  it  takes  its  jealous  course  among 
the  streets  and  houses  with  true  despotism,  going 
where  it  lists,  and  spurning  every  obstacle  away  be- 
fore it. 

"  The   grand   duke    has    a   worthier   secret   passage 
tluough  the  streets,  in  his  black  robe  and  hood,  as  a 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  253 

member  of  the  Compagnia  della  Misericordia ;  wkich 
brotherhood  includes  all  ranks  of  men.  If  an  accident 
take  place,  their  office  is  to  raise  the  sufferer,  and  bear 
him  tenderly  to  the  hospital.  If  a  fire  break  out,  it  is 
one  of  their  functions  to  repair  to  the  spot,  and  render 
their  assistance  and  protection.  It  is  also  among  their 
commonest  offices  to  attend  and  console  the  sick ;  and 
tliey  neither  receive  money,  nor  eat,  nor  drink,  in  any 
house  they  visit  for  this  purpose.  Those  who  are  on 
duty  for  the  time  are  called  together,  on  a  moment's 
notice,  by  the  tolling  of  the  great  bell  of  the  tower ;  and 
it  is  said  that  the  grand  duke  has  been  seen,  at  this 
sound,  to  rise  from  his  seat  at  table,  and  quietly  with- 
draw to  attend  the  summons. 

"  In  this  other  large  piazza,  where  an  irregular  kind 
of  market  is  held,  and  stores  of  old  iron  and  other  small 
merchandise  are  set  out  on  stalls  or  scattered  on  the  pave- 
ment, are  grouped  together  the  cathedral  with  its  great 
dome,  the  beautiful  Italian  Gothic  tower,  the  cam- 
panile, and  the  baptistery  with  its  wrought  bronze 
doors.  And  here,  a  small  untrodden  square  in  the 
pavement,  is  '  the  stone  of  Dante,'  Avhere  (so  runs  the 
story)  he  was  used  to  bring  his  stool,  and  sit  in  contem- 
plation. I  wonder  was  he  ever,  in  his  bitter  exile,  with- 
held from  cursing  the  very  stones  in  the  streets  of 
Florence  the  ungrateful,  by  any  kind  remembrance 
of  this  old  musing-place,  and  its  association  with  gentle 
thouQ:hts  of  little  Beatrice. 


254  LIFE   AND   WUrXINGS   OP 

"  The  Chapel  of  the  Medici,  the  good  and  bad  angels 
of  Florence  ;  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce,  where  Michael 
Angelo  lies  buried,  and  where  every  stone  in  the  clois- 
ters is  eloquent  on  great  men's  deaths ;  innumerable 
chujches,  often  masses  of  unfinished  haavj  brickwork 
externally,  but  solemn  and  serene  within,  —  arrest  our 
lingering  steps  in  strolling  through  the  city. 

"  In  keeping  with  the  tombs  among  the  cloisters  is 
the  Museum  of  Natural  History,  famous  through  the 
world  for  its  preparations  in  wax,  beginning  with  the 
models  of  leaves,  seeds,  plants,  inferior  animals,  and 
gradually  ascending,  through  separate  organs  of  the 
human  frame,  up  to  the  whole  structure  of  that  won- 
derful creation,  exquisitely  presented,  as  in  recent 
death.  Few  admonitions  of  our  frail  mortality  can  be 
more  solemn  and  more  sad,  or  strike  so  home  upon  the 
heart,  as  the  counterfeits  of  youth  and  beairty  that  are 
lying  there  upon  their  beds  in  their  last  sleep. 

"  Beyond  the  walls,  the  whole  sweet  Valley  of  the 
Arno,  the  convent  at  Fiesole,  the  Tower  of  Gahleo, 
Boccaccio's  house,  old  villas  and  retreats,  innumerable 
spots  of  interest,  —  all  glowing  in  a  landscape  of  sur- 
passing beauty  steeped  in  the  richest  light,  —  are  spread 
before  us.  Returning  from  so  much  brightness,  how 
solemn  and  how  grand  the  streets  again,  with  their 
great,  dark,  mournful  palaces,  and  many  legends,  not 
of  siege  and  war  and  might,  and  iron  hand  alone,  but  of 
tlie  triumphant  growth  of  peaceful  arts  and  sciences  ! 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  255 

"What  light  is  shed  upon  the  world,  at  this  day, 
from  amidst  these  rugged  palaces  of  Florence !  Here, 
open  to  all  comers,  in  their  beautiful  and  calm  retreats, 
the  ancient  sculptors  are  immortal,  side  by  side  with 
Michael  Angelo,  Canova,  Titian,  Rembrandt,  Raphael, 
poets,  historians,  philosophers,  —  those  illustrious  men 
of  history,  beside  whom  its  crowned  heads  and  har- 
nessed warriors  show  so  poor  and  small,  and  are  so  soon 
forgotten.  Here  the  imperishable  part  of  noble  minds 
survives,  placid  and  equal,  when  strongholds  of  assault 
and  defence  are  overthrown  ;  when  the  tyranny  of  the 
many  or  the  few,  or  both,  is  but  a  tale ;  when  pride 
and  power  are  so  much  cloistered  dust.  The  fire  within 
the  stern  streets,  and  among  the  massive  palaces  and 
towers,  kindled  by  rays  from  heaven,  is  still  Ijurning 
brightly  when  the  flickering  of  war  is  extinguished,  and 
the  household-fires  of  generations  have  decayed ;  as 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  faces,  rigid  with  the  strife 
and  passion  of  the  hour,  have  faded  out  of  the  old 
squares  and  public  haunts,  while  the  nameless  Floren- 
tine lady,  preserved  from  oblivion  by  a  painter's  hand, 
yet  lives  on  in  enduring  grace  and  youth. 

"  Let  us  look  back  on  Florence  while  we  may,  and, 
when  its  shining  dome  is  seen  no  more,  go  travelling 
through  cheerful  Tuscany  with  a  bright  remembrance 
of  it ;  for  Italy  will  be  the  fairer  for  the  recollection. 
The  summer-time  being  come,  and  Genoa  and  Milan, 
and  the  Lake  of  Como,  lying  far  behind  us,  and  we  rest- 


256  LIFE    AND    WRITHSrOS    OF 

ing  at  Faido,  a  Swiss  village,  near  tlie  awful  rocks  and 
mountains,  the  everlasting  snows  and  roaring  cataracts, 
of  the  Great  St,  Gothard,  hearing  the  Italian  tongue 
for  the  last  time  on  tliis  journey,  —  let  us  part  from 
Italy,  with  all  its  miseries  and  wrongs,  affectionately,  in 
our  admiration  of  the  beauties,  natural  and  artificial,  of 
which  it  is  full  to  overflowing,  and  in  our  tenderness 
towards  a  people  natui'ally  well  disposed  and  patient 
and  sweet-tempered.  Years  of  neglect,  oppression,  and 
misrule,  have  been  at  work  to  change  their  nature,  and 
reduce  their  spirit ;  miserable  jealousies,  fomented  by 
petty  princes  to  whom  union  was  destruction,  and  di- 
vision strength,  have  been  a  canker  at  the  root  of  their 
nationality,  and  have  barbarized  their  language  :  but 
the  good  that  was  in  them  ever  is  in  them  yet,  and  a 
noble  people  may  be  one  day  raised  up  from  these 
ashes.  Let  us  entertain  that  hope !  And  let  us  not 
remember  Italy  the  less  regardfully,  because  in  every 
fragment  of  her  fallen  temples,  and  every  stone  of  her 
deserted  palaces  and  prisons,  she  helps  to  inculcate  the 
lesson  that  the  wheel  of  time  is  rolling  for  an  end,  and 
that  the  world  is,  in  all  great  essentials,  better,  gentler, 
more  forbearing,  and  more  hopeful,  as  it  rolls !  " 

For  several  years,  at  the  merry  Christmas-time,  Mr. 
Dickens  furnished  to  his  admiring  readers  some  brief 
romances,  wliich  greatly  added  to  his  fame.  There  were 
five  in  the  series.     They  were  "  The  Christmas  Carol," 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  257 

published  in  1843 ;  "  The  Chimes,"  1844  ;  "  The  Cricket 
on  the  Hearth,"  1845  ;  "  The  Battle  of  Life,"  1846  ;  and 
"  The  Haunted  Man,"  1847.  "  Some  critics,"  it  is  said, 
"have  supposed  that  the  last  one  or  two  of  these  series 
showed  evidences  of  a  fatigued  mind.  This  may  be 
true  ;  in  which  case,  it  was  evidence  of  practical  sense 
and  self-knowledge  to  discontinue  them." 

In  the  peroration  of  the  concluding  lecture  which 
Thackeray  gave  on  "  English  Humorists  of  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,"  he  paid  an  eloquent  and  touching  trib- 
ute to  the  genius  of  Mr.  Dickens,  and  said,  — 

"  As  for  the  charities  of  Mr.  Dickens,  multii3lied  kind- 
nesses which  he  has  conferred  upon  us  all,  —  upon  our 
children,  upon  people  educated  and  uneducated,  upon 
the  myriads  here  and  at  home  who  speak  our  common 
tongue, — have  you  not,  have  not  I,  all  of  us,  reason  to  be 
thankful  to  this  kind  friend,  who  soothed  and  charmed 
so  many  hours,  brought  pleasure  and  sweet  laughter  to 
so  many  homes,  made  such  multitudes  of  children  hap- 
py, endowed  us  with  such  a  sweet  store  of  gracious 
thoughts,  fair  fancies,  soft  sympathies,  hearty  enjoy- 
ments? There  are  creations  of  Mr.  Dickens's  which 
seem  to  me  to  rank  as  personal  benefits  ;  figures  so  de- 
lightful, that  one  feels  happier  and  better  for  knowing 
them,  as  one  does  for  being  brought  into  Lhe  society  of 
very  good  men  and  women.  The  atmosphere  in  which 
these  people  live  is  wholesome  to  breathe  in  ;  you  feel, 
17 


258  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

tliat  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  tliem  is  a  personal  kind- 
ness ;  you  come  away  better  for  your  contact  with  them  ; 
your  hands  seem  cleaner  fi-om  having  the  privilege  of 
shaking  theirs.  Was  there  ever  a  better  charity-sermon 
preached  in  the  world  than  Dickens's  '  Christmas  Carol '  ? 
I  believe  it  occasioned  immense  hospitality  throughout 
England ;  was  the  means  of  lighting  up  hundreds  of 
kind  fires  at  Christmas-time  ;  caused  a  wonderful  out- 
pouring of  Christmas  good  feeling,  of  Christmas  j3uncli- 
brewing ;  an  awful  slaughter  of  Christmas  turkeys,  and 
roasting  and  basting  of  Christmas  beef." 

Thackeray's  private  library  was  sold  after  his  death  ; 
and  a  copy  of  "  The  Christmas  Carol,"  presented  him 
by  the  author,  with  a  note,  sold  for  twenty-five  pounds. 

The  following  is  the  closing  portion  of  the  first 
"  Christmas  Carol :  "  — 

"  Yes  !  and  the  bedpost  was  his  own  ;  the  bed  was 
his  own  ;  the  room  was  his  own  ;  best  and  happiest  of 
all,  the  time  before  him  was  his  own,  to  make  amends  in. 

"  '  I  will  live  in  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,' 
Scrooge  repeated,  as  he  scrambled  out  of  bed.  '  The 
spirits  of  all  three  shall  strive  within  me.  O  Jacob 
jMarley!  Heaven  and  the  Christmas-time  be  praised 
for  tliis  !  I  say  it  on  my  knees,  old  Jacob,  —  on  my 
knees ! ' 

"  lie  was  so  fluttered,  and  so  glowing  with  his  good 


1 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  259 

intentions,  that  liis  broken  voice  would  scarcely  answer 
to  his  call.  He  had  been  sobbing  violently  in  his  con- 
flict with  the  spirit ;  and  his  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  '  They  are  not  torn  down ! '  cried  Scrooge,  folding  one 
of  his  bed-curtains  in  his  arms,  — '  they  are  not  torn 
down,  rings  and  all.  They  are  here,  —  I  am  here.  The 
shadows  of  the  things  that  would  have  been  may  be  dis- 
pelled.    They  will  be  :  I  know  they  will ! ' 

"  His  hands  were  busy  with  his  garments  all  this 
time,  turning  them  inside  out,  putting  them  on  upside 
down,  tearing  them,  mislaying  them,  maldng  them  par- 
ties to  every  kind  of  extravagance. 

"  '  I  don't  know  what  to  do ! '  cried  Scrooge,  laughing 
and  crying  in  the  same  breath,  and  making  a  perfect 
Laocoon  of  himself  with  his  stockings.  '  I  am  as  light 
as  a  feather ;  I  am  as  happy  as  an  angel ;  I  am  as  merry 
as  a  school-boy ;  I  am  as  giddy  as  a  drunken  man.  A 
merry  Christmas  to  everybody!  A  happy  New -Year  to 
all  the  world  !     Halloo,  here  !     Whoop  !     Halloo  ! ' 

"  He  had  frisked  into  the  sitting-room,  and  was  now 
standing  there,  perfectly  winded. 

"  '  There's  the  saucepan  that  the  gruel  was  in  ! '  cried 
Scrooge,  starting  off  again,  and  going  round  the  fire- 
place. '  There's  the  door  by  which  the  ghost  of  Jacob 
IMarley  entered !  There's  the  corner  where  the  ghost  of 
Christmas  Present  sat !  There's  the  window  where  I 
saw  the  wandering  spirits !  It's  all  right,  it's  all  true, 
it  all  happened.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ' 


260  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS  OF 

"  Really,  for  a  man  who  had  been  out  of  practice  for 
so  man}^  years,  it  was  a  splendid  laugh,  a  most  illustrious 
laugh, — the  father  of  a  long,  long  line  of  brilliant  laughs. 

"  '  I  don't  know  what  day  of  the  month  it  is,'  said 
Scrooge ;  '  I  don't  know  how  long  I  have  been  among 
the  spirits.  I  don't  know  any  thing.  I'm  quite  a  baby. 
Never  mind.  I  don't  care.  I'd  rather  be  a  baby.  Hal- 
loo !     "Whoop  !     Halloo,  here  ! ' 

"  He  was  checked  in  his  transports  by  the  churches 
ringing  out  the  lustiest  peals  he  had  ever  heard.  Clash, 
clang,  hammer ;  ding,  dong,  bell.  Bell,  dong,  ding ; 
hammer,  clang,  clash  !     Oh,  glorious,  glorious  ! 

"  Running  to  the  window,  he  opened  it,  and  put  out 
his  head.  No  fog,  no  mist ;  clear,  bright,  jovial,  stir- 
ring, cold ;  cold,  piping  for  the  blood  to  dance  to ; 
golden  sunlight ;  heavenly  sky ;  sweet,  fresh  air  ;  merry 
bells.     Oh,  glorious,  glorious  ! 

"  '  What's  to-day  ?  '  cried  Scrooge,  calling  downward 
to  a  boy  in  Sunday  clothes,  who,  j)erhaps,  had  loitered  in 
to  look  about  liim. 

"  '  Eh  ? '  returned  the  boy,  with  all  his  might  of 
wonder. 

"  '  What's  to-day,  my  fine  fellow  ?  '  said  Scrooge. 

"  '  To-day ! '  replied  the  boy.  '  Why,  Christmas  Day  ! ' 

"  '  It's  Christmas  Day  ! '  said  Scrooge  to  himself.  '  I 
haven't  missed  it.  The  spirits  have  done  it  all  in  one 
night.  They  can  do  any  thing  they  like.  Of  coui'se, 
they  can.     IIulloo,  my  fine  fellow  ! ' 


CHAELES  DICKENS.  261 

"  '  Halloo  ! '  retm-necl  tlie  boy. 

"  '  Do  you  know  the  poulterer's,  in  the  next  street  but 
one,  at  the  corner  ? '  Scrooge  inquired. 

"  '  I  should  hope  I  did,'  replied  the  lad. 

"  '  An  intelligent  boy  ! '  said  Scrooge,  —  '  a  remarkable 
boy  !  Do  you  know  whether  they've  sold  the  prize-tur- 
key that  was  hanging  up  there  ?  —  not  the  little  prize- 
turkey,  the  big  one  ?  ' 

"  '  What,  the  one  as  big  as  me  ?  '  returned  the  boy. 

"  '  What  a  delightful  boy  ! '  said  Scrooge.  '  It's  a 
pleasure  to  talk  to  him.     Yes,  my  buck ! ' 

"  '  It's  hanging  there  now,'  replied  the  boy. 

"  '  Is  it  ?  '  said  Scrooge.     '  Go  and  buy  it.' 

"  '  Walk-ER  !  '  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  '  No,  no,'  said  Scrooge :  '  I  am  in  earnest.  Go,  and 
buy  it,  and  tell  'em  to  bring  it  here,  that  I  may  give 
them  the  directions  where  to  take  it.  Come  back  with 
the  man,  and  I'll  give  you  a  shilling.  Come  back  with 
him  in  less  than  five  minutes,  and  I'll  give  half  a 
crown ! ' 

"  The  boy  was  off  like  a  shot.  He  must  have  had  a 
steady  hand  at  a  trigger  who  could  have  got  a  shot  off 
half  so  fast. 

"  '  I'll  send  it  to  Bob  Cratchit's,'  whispered  Scrooge, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  splitting  with  a  laugh.  '  He 
sha'n't  know  who  sends  it.  It's  twice  the  size  of  Tiny 
Tim.  Joe  Miller  never  made  such  a  joke  as  sending  it 
to  Bob's  will  be  ! ' 


2G2  LIFE  AND  WAITINGS  OF  ■ 

"  The  band  in  "wliicb  he  wrote  the  address  was  not  a 
steady  one ;  but  write  it  he  did,  somehow,  and  went 
down  stairs  to  open  the  street  door,  ready  for  the  com- 
ing of  the  poulterer's  man.  As  he  stood  there,  waiting 
his  arrival,  the  knocker  caught  his  eye.  I 

"  '  I  shall  love  it  as  long  as  I  live  ! '  cried  Scrooge,  I 
patting  it  with  his  hand.     '  I  scarcely  ever  looked  at  it 
before.     What  an  honest  expression  it  has  in  its  face  ! 
It's  a  wonderful  knocker !     Here's  the  turkey.     Halloo  ! 
Whoop  !     How  are  you?     Merry  Christmas  ! ' 

"  It  was  a  tm-key  !  He  never  could  have  stood  upon 
bis  legs,  that  bird.  He  would  have  snapped  'em  short 
off  in  a  minute,  like  sticks  of  sealing-wax. 

" '  Why,  it's  impossible  to  carry  that  to  Camden 
Town,'  said  Scrooge.     '  You  must  have  a  cab.' 

"  The  chuckle  with  which  he  said  this,  and  the 
chuckle  with  which  he  paid  for  the  turkey,  and  the 
chuckle  with  which  he  paid  for  the  cab,  and  the  chuckle 
with  Avhich  he  recompensed  the  bo}^,  were  only  to  be 
exceeded  by  the  chuckle  with  which  he  sat  down  breath- 
less in  his  chair  again,  and  chuckled  till  he  cried. 

"  Shaving  was  not  an  easy  task :  for  his  hand  con- 
tinued to  shake  very  much  ;  and  shaving  requires  at- 
tention, even  when  you  don't  dance  while  you  are  at  it. 
But,  if  he  had  cut  the  end  of  his  nose  off,  he  would  have 
put  a  piece  of  sticking-plaster  over  it,  and  been  quite 
satisfied. 

"  He  dressed  himself  '  all  in  his  best,'  and  at  last  got 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  263 

out  into  the  streets.  The  people  were  by  this  time 
pouring  forth,  as  he  had  seen  them  witli  the  ghost  of 
Christmas  Present ;  and,  walking  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  Scrooge  regarded  every  one  with  a  delightful  smile. 
lie  looked  so  irresistibly  pleasant,  in  a  word,  that  three 
or  four  good-humored  fellows  said,  '  Good-morning,  sir  ! 
A  merry  Christmas  to  you ! '  And  Scrooge  said  often 
afterwards,  that,  of  all  the  bhthe  sounds  he  had  ever 
heard,  those  were  the  blithest  in  his  ears. 

"  He  had  not  gone  far,  when,  coming  on  towards  him, 
he  beheld  the  portly  gentleman  who  had  walked  into 
his  counting-house  the  day  before,  and  said,  '  Scrooge 
and  Marley's,  I  believe  ?  '  It  sent  a  pang  across  his  heart 
to  think  how  this  old  gentleman  would  look  upon  him 
when  they  met ;  but  he  knew  what  patli  lay  straight 
before  him,  and  he  took  it. 

"  '  My  dear  sir,'  said  Scrooge,  quickening  his  pace,  and 
taking  the  old  gentleman  by  both  his  hands.  '  How  do 
you  do  ?  I  hope  you  succeeded  yesterday.  It  was  very 
kind  of  you.     A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  sir ! ' 

'"Mr.  Scrooge?' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  Scrooge.  '  That  is  my  name  ;  and  I  fear 
it  may  not  be  pleasant  to  you.  Allow  me  to  ask  your 
pardon.  And  will  you  have  the  goodness  ? '  —  here 
Scrooge  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  '  Lord  bless  me !  '  cried  the  gentleman,  as  if  his 
breath  were  taken  away.  '  My  dear  Mr.  Scrooge,  are 
you  serious  ?  ' 


264  LIFE  AND   WHITINGS   OF 

"  '  If  you  please,'  said  Scrooge.  '  Not  a  farthing  less. 
A  great  many  back-payments  are  included  in  it,  I  assure. 
Will  3^ou  do  me  that  favor  ?  ' 

"■ '  My  dear  sir,'  said  the  other,  shaking  hands  with 
him.     '  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  such  munifi '  — 

" '  Don't  say  any  thing,  please,'  retorted  Scrooge. 
'  Come  and  see  me.     Will  you  come  and  see  me  ? ' 

"  '  I  will,'  cried  the  old  gentleman.  And  it  was  clear 
he  meant  to  do  it. 

"  '  Thank'ee,'  said  Scrooge.  '  I  am  much  obhged  to 
you.     I  thank  you  fifty  times.     Bless  you  ! ' 

"  He  went  to  church,  and  walked  about  the  streets, 
and  watched  the  people  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  patted 
the  children  on  the  head,  and  questioned  beggars,  and 
looked  down  into  the  kitchens  of  houses,  and  up  to  the 
windows,  and  found  that  every  thing  could  yield  him 
pleasure.  He  had  never  dreamed  that  any  walk,  that 
any  thing,  could  give  him  so  much  happiness.  In  the 
afternoon,  he  turned  his  steps  towards  his  nephew's 
house. 

"  He  passed  the  door  a  dozen  times  before  he  had  the 
courage  to  go  up  and  knock  ;  but  he  made  a  dash,  and 
did  it. 

"  '  Is  your  master  at  home,  my  dear  ? '  said  Scrooge  to 
the  girl.     '  Nice  girl.     Very.' 

" '  Yes,  sir.' 

"  '  Where  is  he,  my  love  ? '  said  Scrooge. 

"  '  He's  in  the  dining-room,  sir,  along  with  mistress. 
I'll  show  you  up  stairs,  if  you  please.' 


1 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  265 

"  '  Thank'ee.  He  knows  me,'  said  Scrooge,  witli  liis 
hand  already  on  the  dining-room  lock.  '  I'll  go  in  here, 
my  dear.' 

"  He  turned  it  gently,  and  sidled  his  face  in  round 
the  door.  They  were  looking  at  the  table  (which  was 
spread  out  in  great  array)  ;  for  these  young  .housekeep- 
ers are  always  nervous  on  such  points,  and  hke  to  see 
that  every  thing  is  right. 

"  '  Fred  !  '  said  Scrooge. 

"  Dear  heart  alive,  how  his  niece  by  marriage  started ! 
Scrooge  had  forgotten,  for  the  moment,  about  her  sitting 
in  the  corner  with  the  footstool,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
done  it,  on  any  account. 

"  '  Why,  bless  my  soul ! '  cried  Fred.    '  Who's  that  ? ' 

"  '  It's  I,  — your  Uncle  Scrooge.  I  have  come  to  din- 
ner.    Will  you  let  me  in,  Fred  ? ' 

"  Let  him  in !  It's  a  mercy  he  didn't  shake  his  arm 
off.  He  was  at  home  in  five  minutes.  Nothing  could 
be  heartier.  His  niece  looked  just  the  same.  So  did 
Topper  when  he  came.  So  did  the  plump  sister  when 
slie  came.  So  did  every  one  when  tliey  came.  Wonder- 
ful party,  wonderful  games,  wonderful  unanimity,  won- 
derful happiness. 

"  But  he  was  early  at  the  office  next  morning.  Oh  ! 
he  was  early  there.  If  he  could  only  be  there  first,  and 
catch  Bob  Cratchit  coming  late  !  —  that  was  the  thing  he 
had  set  his  heart  upon. 

"  And  he  did  it ;  yes,  he  did  !    The  clock  struck  nine. 


266  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OF 

No  Bob.  A  quarter  past.  No  Bob.  He  was  full  eigh- 
teen minutes  and  a  half  behind  his  time.  Scrooge  sat 
with  his  door  wide  open,  that  he  might  see  him  come 
into  the  Tank. 

"  His  hat  was  off  before  he  opened  the  door ;  his 
comforter  too.  He  was  on  his  stool  in  a  jiffy,  driving 
away  with  his  pen  as  if  he  were  trying  to  overtake  nine 
o'clock. 

"  '  Halloo  ! '  growled  Scrooge  in  his  accustomed  voice, 
as  near  as  he  could  feign  it.  '  What  do  you  mean  by 
coming  here  at  this  time  of  day  ?  ' 

"  '  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,'  said  Bob.  '  I  am  behind  my 
time.' 

"  '  You  are  ! '  repeated  Scrooge.  '  Yes,  I  think  you 
are.     Step  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please.' 

"  It's  only  once  a  year,  sir,'  pleaded  Bob,  appearing 
from  the  Tank.  '  It  shall  not  be  repeated.  I  was  mak- 
ing rather  merry,  yesterda}^  sir.' 

" '  Now,  I  tell  you  what,  my  friend,'  said  Scrooge. 
'  I  am  not  going  to  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any  longer  ; 
and  therefore,'  he  continued,  leaping  from  his  stool,  and 
giving  Bob  such  a  dig  in  the  waistcoat  that  he  staggered 
back  into  the  Tank  again,  —  '  and  therefore  I  am  about 
to  raise  your  salary  ! ' 

"  Bob  trembled,  and  got  a  little  nearer  to  the  ruler. 
He  had  a  momentary  idea  of  knocking  Scrooge  down 
with  it,  holding  hun,  and  calling  to  the  people  in  the 
court  for  help  and  a  strait-waistcoat. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  267 

"  '  A  merry  Christmas,  Bob  ! '  said  Scrooge,  witli  an 
earnestness  that  could  not  be  mistaken,  as  he  chapped 
him  on  the  back.  '  A  merrier  Christmas,  Bob,  my  good 
fellow,  than  I  have  given  you  for  many  a  year !  I'll 
raise  your  salary,  and  endeavor  to  assist  your  struggling 
family  ;  and  we  will  discuss  your  affau's  this  very  after- 
noon, over  a  Christmas  bowl  of  smoking  bishop,  Bob ! 
Make  up  the  fires,  and  buy  another  coal-scuttle,  before 
you  dot  another  i,  Bob  Cratcliit !  ' 

"  Scrooge  was  better  than  his  word.  He  did  it  all, 
and  infinitely  more  ;  and  to  Tiny  Tim,  who  did  not  die, 
he  was  a  second  father.  He  became  as  good  a  friend, 
as  good  a  master,  and  as  good  a  man,  as  the  good  old 
city  knew,  or  any  other  good  old  city,  town,  or  borough 
in  the  good  old  world.  Some  people  laughed  to  see  the 
alteration  in  him :  but  he  let  them  laugh,  and  little  heed- 
ed them ;  for  he  was  wise  enougli  to  know  that  nothing 
ever  happened  on  this  globe,  for  good,  at  which  some 
people  did  not  have  their  fill  of  laughter  in  the  outset ; 
and,  knowing  that  such  as  these  would  be  blind  anyway, 
he  thought  it  quite  as  well  that  they  should  wrinkle  up 
their  eyes  in  grins,  as  have  the  malady  in  less  attractive 
forms.  His  own  heart  laughed ;  and  that  was  quite 
enough  for  him. 

"  He  had  no  further  intercourse  with  spirits,  but  lived 
upon  the  total-abstinence  principle  ever  afterwards ; 
and  it  was  always  said  of  him,  that  he  knew  how  to 
keep  Christmas  well,  if   any  man    alive  possessed  the 


268  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

knowledge.  May  that  be  truly  said  of  us,  and  all  of 
us !  And  so,  as  Tiny  Tim  observed,  '  God  bless  us, 
every  one ! '" 

The  following  is  from  "  The  Chimes,"  and  conveys  a 
solemn  lesson  to  the  soul :  — 

"  This  was  the  belfry,  where  the  ringers  came.  He 
had  caught  hold  of  one  of  the  frayed  ropes  which  hung 
down  through  apertures  in  the  oaken  roof.  At  first,  he 
started,  thinking  it  was  hair ;  then  trembled  at  the  very 
thought  of  waking  the  deep  bell.  The  bells  themselves 
were  higher.  Higher,  Trotty,  in  his  fascination,  or  in 
working  out  the  spell  upon  him,  groped  his  way,  —  by 
ladders  new  and  toilsomely ;  for  it  was  steep,  and  not  too 
certain  holding  for  the  feet. 

"  Ux3,  up,  up  ;  and  climb  and  clamber :  up,  up,  up,  — 
liigher,  higher,  higher  up  ! 

"  Until,  ascending  through  the  floor,  and  pausing  with 
his  head  just  raised  above  its  beams,  he  came  among  the 
bells.  It  was  barely  possible  to  make  out  their  great 
shapes  in  the  gloom ;  but  there  they  were,  shadowy 
and  dark  and  dumb. 

"  A  heavy  sense  of  dread  and  loneliness  fell  instantly 
upon  him  as  he  climbed  into  this  airy  nest  of  stone  and 
metal.  His  head  went  round  and  round.  He  listened, 
and  then  raised  a  wild  '  Halloo  ! ' 

"  '  Halloo  ! '  was  mournfully  protracted  by  the  echoes. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  2G9 

"  Giddy,  confused,  and  out  of  breath,  and  frightened, 
Trotty  looked  about  him  vacantly,  and  sunk  down  in  a 
swoon. 

"  Black  are  the  brooding  clouds,  and  troubled  the  deep 
waters,  when  the  sea  of  thought,  first  heaving  from  a 
calm,  gives  up  its  dead.  Monsters  uncouth  and  wild 
arise  in  premature,  imperfect  resurrection ;  the  several 
parts  and  shapes  of  different  things  are  joined  and  mixed 
by  chance  :  and  when  and  how,  and  by  what  wonderful 
degrees,  each  separates  from  each,  and  every  sense  and 
object  of  the  mind  resumes  its  usual  form,  and  lives 
again,  no  man  —  though  every  man  is  every  day  the 
casket  of  this  type  of  the  great  mystery  —  can  tell. 

"  So  when  and  how  the  darkness  of  the  night-black 
steeple  changed  to  shining  light ;  when  and  how  the  soli- 
tary tower  was  peopled  with  a  mj'riad  figures ;  when 
and  how  the  whispered  '  Haunt  and  Imnt  him,'  breathing 
monotonously  through  his  sleep  or  swoon,  became  a  voice 
exclaiming  in  the  waking  ears  of  Trotty,  '  Break  his 
slumbers  ; '  when  and  how  he  ceased  to  have  a  sluggish 
and  confused  idea  that  such  things  Avere  companioning 
a  host  of  others  that  were  not,  —  there  are  no  dates  or 
means  to  tell.  But  awake,  and  standing  on  his  feet 
upon  the  boards  where  he  had  lately  lain,  he  saw  this 
goblin  sight. 

"  He  saw  the  tower,  whither  his  charmed  footsteps  had 
brought  him,  swarming  with  dwarf  phantoms,  spirits, 
elfin  creatures  of  the  bells.    He  saw  them  leaping,  flying, 


270  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OF 

dropping,  pouring,  from  tlie  bells  without  a  pause.  He 
saw  them  round  him  on  the  ground,  above  him  in  the 
air,  clambering  from  him  by  the  ropes  below,  looldng 
down  upon  him  from  the  massive  iron-girded  beams, 
peeping  in  upon  him  through  the  chinks  and  loopholes 
in  the  walls,  spreading  away  and  away  from  him  in  en- 
larging circles,  as  the  water-ripples  give  place  to  a  huge 
stone  that  suddenly  comes  plashing  in  among  them.  He 
saw  them  of  all  aspects  and  all  shapes ;  he  saw  them 
ugly,  handsome,  crippled,  exquisitely  formed ;  he  saw 
them  young  ;  he  saw  them  old  ;  he  saw  them  kind  ;  he 
saw  them  cruel ;  he  saw  them  merry ;  he  saw  them  grin  ; 
he  saw  them  dance,  and  heard  them  sing ;  he  saw  them 
tear  their  hair,  and  heard  them  howl ;  he  saw  the  air 
thick  with  them;  he  saw  them  come  and  go  incessant- 
1}' ;  he  saw  them  riding  downward,  soaring  upward, 
sailing  off  afar,  perching  near  at  hand, —  all  restless,  and 
all  violently  active.  Stone  and  brick  and  slate  and  tile 
became  transparent  to  him  as  to  them.  He  saw  them  in 
the  houses,  busy  at  the  sleepers'  beds ;  he  saw  them 
soothing  people  in  their  dreams ;  he  saw  them  beating 
them  with  knotted  whips  ;  he  saw  them  yelling  in  their 
ears  ;  he  saw  them  playing  softest  music  on  theu*  pillows  ; 
lie  saw  them  cheering  some  with  the  songs  of  birds  and 
the  perfume  of  flowers ;  he  saw  them  flashing  awful 
faces  on  the  troubled  rest  of  others,  from  enchanted 
mirrors  which  they  carried  in  their  hands. 

"He   saw  these  creatures,  not  only  among  sleeping 


CFTARLES   DICKENS.  271 

men,  but  waking  also ;  active  in  pursuits  irreconcilable 
with  one  another,  and  possessing  or  assuming  natures 
the  most  opposite.  He  saw  one  buckling  on  innumera- 
ble wings  to  inorease  his  speed,  another  loading  him- 
self with  chains  and  weights  to  retard  his.  He  saw 
some  putting  the  hands  of  clocks  forward,  some  putting 
the  hands  of  clocks  backward,  some  endeavoring  to  stop 
the  clock  entirely.  He  saw  them  representing,  here  a 
marriage-ceremony,  there  a  funeral ;  in  this  chamber  an 
election,  in  that  a  ball.  He  saw,  everywhere,  restless 
and  untiring  motion. 

"  Bewildered  by  the  host  of  shifting  and  extraordinary 
figures,  as  well  as  by  the  uproar  of  the  bells,  which  all 
this  while  were  ringing,  Trotty  clung  to  a  wooden  pillar 
for  support,  and  turned  his  white  face  here  and  there 
in  mute  and  stunned  astonishment. 

"  As  he  gazed,  the  chime  stopped.  Instantaneous 
change !  The  whole  swarm  fainted :  their  forms  col- 
lapsed, their  speed  deserted  them,  they  sought  to  fly, 
'but,  in  the  act  of  falKng,  died,  and  melted  into  ah-.  No 
fresh  supply  succeeded  them.  One  straggler  leaped  down 
pretty  briskly  from  the  surface  of  the  great  bell,  and 
alighted  on  his  feet ;  but  he  was  dead  and  gone  before 
he  could  turn  round.  Some  few  of  the  late  comj)any 
who  had  gambolled  in  the  tower  remained  there,  spin- 
ning over  and  over  a  little  longer ;  but  these  became  at 
every  turn  more  faint  and  few  and  feeble,  and  soon 
went  the  way  of  the  rest.    The  last  of  all  was  one  small 


272  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OF 

hunchback,  who  had  got  into  an  echoing  cgrner,  where 
he  twirled  and  twirled,  and  floated  by  himself  a  long 
tune  ;  showing  such  perseverance,  that  at  last  he  dwin- 
dled to  a  leg,  and  even  to  a  foot,  before  he  finally  retired: 
but  he  vanished  in  the  end,  and  then  the  tower  was  silent. 

"  Then,  and  not  before,  did  Trotty  see  in  every  bell  a 
bearded  figure  of  the  bulk  and  stature  of  the  bell,  —  in- 
comprehensibl}^  a  figure  and  the  bell  itself,  —  gigantic, 
grave,  and  darkly  watchful  of  him,  as  he  stood  rooted 
to  the  ground. 

"  Mysterious  and  awful  figures,  resting  on  nothing ; 
poised  in  the  night-air  of  the  tower,  with  their  draped 
and  hooded  heads  merged  in  the  dim  roof;  motionless 
and  shadowy,  —  shadowy  and  dark,  although  he  saw 
them  by  some  light  belonging  to  themselves  (none  else 
was  there),  each  with  its  muffled  hand  upon  its  goblin 
mouth. 

"  He  could  not  plunge  down  wildly  through  the  open- 
ing in  the  floor ;  for  all  power  of  motion  had  deserted 
him :  otherwise  he  would  have  done  so,  —  ay,  would, 
have  thrown  himself  head  foremost  from  the  steeple- 
top,  rather  than  have  seen  them  watching  him  with  eyes 
that  would  have  waked  and  watched,  although  the  pupils 
had  been  taken  out. 

"  Again,  again,  the  dread  and  terror  of  the  lonely 
place,  and  of  the  wild  and  fearful  night  that  reigned 
there,  touched  him  like  a  spectral  hand.  His  distance 
from  all  help  ;  the  long,  dark,  winding,.ghost-beleaguered 


CHARLES    DICKElSrS.  273 

way  that  lay  between  him  and  the  earth  on  which  men 
lived  ;  his  being  high,  high,  high,  up  there,  Avhere  it  had 
made  him  dizzy  to  see  the  birds  fly  in  the  do^j,  cut  off  from 
all  good  people,  who  at  such  an  hour  were  safe  at  home, 
and  sleeping  in  their  beds,  —  all  tliis  struck  coldly  through 
him,  not  as  a  reflection,  but  a  bodily  sensation.  Mean- 
time his  eyes  and  thoughts  and  fears  were  fixed  upon 
the  watchful  figures,  which,  rendered  unlike  any  figures 
of  this  world  by  the  deep  gloom  and  shade  inwrapping 
and  infolding  them,  as  well  as  by  their  looks  and  forms, 
and  supernatural  hovering  above  the  floor,  were,  never- 
theless, as  plainly  to  be  seen  as  were  the  stalwart  oaken 
frames,  cross-pieces,  bars,  and  beams  set  up  there  to 
support  the  bells.  These  hemmed  them  in  a  very  forest 
of  hewn  timber,  from  the  entanglements,  intricacies, 
and  depths  of  which,  as  from  among  the  boughs  of  a  dead 
wood  blighted  for  theu'  phantom  use,  they  kept  their 
darksome  and  unwinking  watch. 

"  A  blast  of  air  —  how  cold  and  shrill !  —  came  moan- 
ing through  the  tower.  As  it  died  away,  the  great  bell, 
or  the  goblin  of  the  great  bell,  spoke. 

"  '  What  visitor  is  this  ?  '  it  said.  The  voice  was  low 
and  deep  ;  and  Trotty  fancied  that  it  sounded  in  the 
other  figures  as  well. 

"  '  I  thought  my  name  was  called  by  the  chimes,' 
said  Trotty,  raising  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of  supplica- 
tion. '  I  hardly  know  why  I  am  here,  or  how  I  came. 
I  have  listened  to  the  chimes  these  many  years.  They 
have  cheered  me  often.' 


274  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

"  '  And  you  have  thanked  them  ? '  said  the  bell. 

"  '  A  thousand  times  ! '  cried  Trotty. 

"  '  How  ?  ' 

"  '  I  am  a  poor  man,'  faltered  Trotty,  '  and  could  only 
thank  them  in  words.' 

"  '  And  always  so  ?  '  inquired  the  goblin  of  the  bell. 
'  Have  you  never  done  us  wrong  in  words  ?  ' 

"  '  No  !  '  cried  Trotty  eagerly. 

"  '  Never  done  us  foul  and  false  and  wicked  wrong  in 
words  ?  '  pursued  the  goblin  of  the  bell. 

"  Trotty  was  about  to  answer,  '  Never ! '  But  he 
stopped,  and  was  confused. 

" '  The  voice  of  Time,'  said  the  phantom,  '  cries  to 
man,  Advance !  Time  is  for  his  advancement  and  im- 
provement, for  his  greater  worth,  his  greater  happiness, 
his  better  life,  his  progress  onward  to  that  goal  within 
its  knowledge  and  its  view,  and  set  there  in  the  period 
when  Time  and  he  began.  Ages  of  darkness,  wicked- 
ness, and  violence,  have  come  and  gone,  milhons  un- 
countable, have*  suffered,  lived,  and  died,  to  point 
the  way  before  him.  Who  seeks  to  turn  him  back,  or 
stay  him  on  his  course,  arrests  a  mighty  engine  which 
will  strike  the  meddler  dead,  and  be  the  fiercer  and  the 
^vilder  ever  for  its  momentary  check.' 

"  '  I  never  did  so  to  my  knowledge,  sir,'  said  Trotty. 
'  It  was  quite  by  accident  if  I  did.  I  wouldn't  go  to  do 
it,  I'm  sure.' 

" '  Who  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Time,  or  of  its  ser- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  275 

vants,'  said  the  goblin  of  tlie  bell,  '  a  cry  of  lamentation 
for  days  which  have  had  their  trial  and  their  failure,  and 
have  left  deep  traces  of  it  which  the  blind  may  see,  —  a 
cry  that  only  serves  the  present  time,  by  showing  men 
how  much  it  needs  their  help  when  any  ears  can  listen 
to  regrets  for  such  a  past,  —  who  does  this,  does  a  wrong. 
And  you  have  done  that  wrong  to  us,  the  chimes.' 

"  Trotty's  first  excess  of  fear  was  gone.  But  he  had 
felt  tenderly  and  gratefully  towards  the  bells,  as  you 
have  seen  ;  and,  when  he  heard  himself  arraigned  as  one 
who  had  offended  them  so  weightily,  his  heart  was 
touched  with  penitence  and  grief. 

"  '  If  you  knew,'  said  Trotty,  clasping  his  hands  ear- 
nestly, — '  or  perhaps  you  do  know,  —  if  you  knew  how 
often  you  have  kept  me  company,  how  often  you  have 
cheered  me  up  when  I've  been  low,  how  you  were  quite 
the  plaything  of  my  little  daughter  Meg  (almost  the  only 
one  she  ever  had)  when  first  her  mother  died,  and  she 
and  me  were  left  alone,  you  won't  bear  malice  for  a 
hasty  word ! ' 

"  '  Who  hears  in  us,  the  chimes,  one  note  bespeaking 
disregard,  or  stern  regard,  of  any  hope  or  joy  or  pain 
or  sorrow  of  the  many-sorrowed  throng ;  who  hears  us 
make  response  to  any  creed  that  gauges  human  passions 
an^  affections  as  it  gauges  the  amount  of  miserable  food 
on  which  humanity  may  pine  and  wither,  —  does  us 
wrong.     That  wrong  you  have  done  us,'  said  the  bell. 

"  '  I  have  ! '  said  Trotty.     '  Oh,  forgive  me  ! ' 


276  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS    OP 

"  '  Who  liear§  us  echo  tlic  dull  vermin  of  the  earth  ; 
the  putters-down  of  crushed  and  broken  natures,  formed 
to  be  raised  up  higher  than  such  maggots  of  the  time 
can  crawl  or  can  conceive,'  pursued  the  goblin  of  the 
bell,  —  '  who  does  so,  does  us  wrong.  And  you  have 
done  us  wrong.' 

"  '  Not  meaning  it,'  said  Trotty.  '  In  my  ignorance. 
Not  meaning  it ! ' 

"  '  Lastly,  and  most  of  all,'  pui'sued  the  bell,  '  who 
turns  his  back  upon  the  fallen  and  disfigured  of  his 
Idnd,  abandons  them  as  vile,  and  does  not  trace  and 
track  with  pitying  eyes  the  unfenced  precipice  by  which 
they  fell  from  good,  —  grasping  in  their  fall  some  tufts 
and  shreds  of  that  lost  soil,  and  clinging  to  them  still 
when  bruised  and  dying  in  the  gulf  below, — does  wrong 
to  Heaven  and  man,  to  time,  and  to  eternity.  And  you 
have  done  that  Avrong.'" 

From  the  opening  pages  of  the  sweet  fairy-tale  of 
home,  "  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  the  following  is 
taken  :  — 

"  The  kettle  began  it !  Don't  tell,  me  what  Mrs. 
Peerybingle  said.  I  know  better.  Mrs.  Peerybingle 
may  leave  it  on  record  to  the  end  of  time  that  she 
couldn't  say  which  of  them  began  it ;  but  I  say  the 
kettle  did.  I  ought  to  know,  I  hope.  The  kettle  be- 
gan it  full  five  minutes  by  the  little  waxy-faced  Dutch 
clock  in  the  corner  before  the  cricket  uttered  a  chirp. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  277 

"  As  if  the  clock  hadn't  finished  striking,  and  the 
convulsive  little  haymaker  at  the  top  of  it,  jerking 
away  right  and  left  with  a  scythe  in  front  of  a  INIoorish 
palace,  hadn't  mowed  doAvn  half  an  acre  of  imaginary 
grass  before  the  cricket  joined  in  at  all ! 

"  Why,  I  am  not  naturally  positive.  Every  one  knows 
that.  I  wouldn't  set  my  own  opinion  against  the  opinion 
of  IMrs.  Peerybingle,  unless  I  were  quite  sure,  on  any  ac- 
count whatever.  Nothing  should  induce  me  ;  but  this 
is  a  question  of  fact.  And  the  fact  is,  that  the  kettle 
began  it,  at  least  five  minutes  before  the  cricket  gave 
any  sign  of  being  in  existence.  Contradict  me,  and  I'll 
say  ten. 

"  Let  me  narrate  exactly  how  it  happened.  I  should 
have  proceeded  to  do  so  in  my  very  first  word,  but  for 
this  plain  consideration,  —  if  I  am  to  tell  a  story,  I  must 
begin  at  the  beginning  ;  and  how  is  it  possible  to  begin 
at  the  beginnifig  without  beginning  at  the  kettle  ? 

"  It  appeared  as  if  there  were  a  sort  of  match,  or  trial 
of  skill,  you  must  understand,  between  the  kettle  and 
the  cricket.  And  this  is  what  led  to  it,  and  how  it 
came  about. 

"  Mrs.  Peerybingle,  going  out  into  the  raw  twilight, 
and  clicking  over  the  wet  stones  in  a  pair  of  pattens 
that  worked  innumerable  rough  impressions  of  the  first 
proposition  in  Euclid  all  about  the  yard,  —  Mrs.  Peery- 
bingle filled  the  kettle  at  the  water-butt.  Presently  re- 
turning, less  the  pattens  (and  a  good  deal  less ;  for  they 


278  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

were  tall,  aucl  Mrs.  Peerybingie  was  but  short),  she  set 
the  kettle  on  the  fire  ;  in  doing  which,  she  lost  her  tem- 
per, or  mislaid  it  for  an  instant ;  for  the  water,  being 
uncomfortably  cold,  and  in  that  shppy,  slushy,  sleety 
sort  of  state  wherein  it  seems  to  penetrate  through 
every  kind  of  substance,  patten-rings  included,  had 
laid  hold  of  Mrs.  Peerybingle's  toes,  and  even  splashed 
her  legs.  And  when  we  rather  plume  ourselves  (with 
reason  too)  upon  our  legs,  and  keep  ourselves  particu- 
larly neat  in  point  of  stocldngs,  we  find  this,  for  the 
moment,  hard  to  bear. 

"  Besides,  the  kettle  was  aggravating  and  obstinate. 
It  wouldn't  allow  itself  to  be  adjusted  on  the  top  bar ; 
it  wouldn't  hear  of  accommodating  itself  kindly  to  the 
knobs  of  coal ;  it  would  lean  forward  with  a  drunken  air, 
and  dribble  —  a  ver}-  idiot  of  a  kettle  —  on  the  hearth  ; 
it  was  quarrelsome,  and  hissed  and  spluttered  morosely 
at  the  fire.  To  sum  up  all,  the  lid,  resisting  Mrs.  Peery- 
bingle's fingers,  first  of  all  turned  topsy-turvy,  and  then, 
with  an  ingenious  pertinacity  deserving  of  a  better  cause, 
dived  sideways  in,  —  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the 
kettle.  And  the  hull  of  '  The  Royal  George,'  has  never 
made  half  the  monstrous  resistance  to  coming  out  of  the 
water  which  the  lid  of  that  kettle  employed  against 
Mrs.  Peerybingie  before  she  got  it  up  again. 

"  It  looked  sullen  and  pig-headed  enough,  even  then  ; 
carrying  its  handle  with  an  air  of  defiance,  and  cocking 
its  spout  pertly  and  mockingly  at   Mrs.  Peerybingie, 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  279 

as  if  it  said,  '  I  won't  boil.  Nothing  shall  induco 
me!' 

"  But  Mrs.  Peerybingle,  with  restored  good-humor, 
dusted  her  chubby  little  hands  against  each  other,  and 
sat  down  before  the  kettle,  laughing.  Meantime,  the 
jolly  blaze  uprose  and  fell,  flashing  and  gleaming  on  the 
little  haymaker  at  the  top  of  the  Dutch  clock,  until  one 
might  have  thought  he  stood  stock  still  before  the  INIoor- 
ish  palace,  and  nothing  was  in  motion  but  the  flame. 

*'  He  was  on  the  move,  however,  and  had  his  spasms, 
two  to  the  second,  all  right  and  regular.  But  his  suffer- 
ings when  the  clock  was  going  to  strike  were  frightful 

O  DO  O 

to  behold ;  and  when  a  cuckoo  looked  out  of  a  trap- 
door in  the  palace,  and  gave  note  six  times,  it  shook 
him,  each  time,  like  a  spectral  voice,  —  or  like  a  some- 
tliing  wiry,  plucking  at  his  legs. 

"  It  was  not  until  a  violent  commotion,  and  a  Avhir- 
ring  noise  among  the  weights  and  ropes  below  him,  had 
quite  subsided,  that  this  terrified  haymaker  became 
himself  again.  Nor  was  he  startled  without  reason ; 
for  these  rattling,  bony  skeletons  of  clocks  are  very  dis- 
concerting in  their  operation,  and  I  wonder  very  much 
how  any  set  of  men,  but,  most  of  all,  how  Dutchmen, 
can  have  had  a  liking  to  invent  them.  There  is  a  popu- 
lar belief  that  Dutchmen  love  broad  cases,  and  much 
clothing  for  their  own  lower  selves ;  and  they  might 
know  better  than  to  leave  their  clocks  so  very  lank  and 
unprotected  surely. 


280  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  Now  it  was,  you  observe,  that  the  kettle  began  to 
spend  the  evening.  Now  it  was,  that  the  kettle,  grow- 
ing mellow  and  musical,  began  to  have  irrepressible 
gurglings  in  its  throat,  and  to  indulge  in  short  vocal 
snorts,  which  it  checked  in  the  bud,  as  if  it  hadn't  quite 
made  up  its  mind  yet  to  be  good  company.  Now  it 
was,  that,  after  t^Y0  or  three  such  vain  attempts  to  stifle 
its  convivial  sentiments,  it  threw  off  all  moroseness,  all 
reserve,  and  burst  into  a  stream  of  song  so  cosey  and 
hilarious,  as  never  maudlin  nightingale  yet  formed  the 
least  idea  of. 

"  So  plain  too  !  Bless  jou,  joii  might  have  under- 
stood it  like  a  book,  —  better  than  some  books  you  and 
I  could  name,  perhaps.  With  its  warm  breath  gushing 
forth  in  a  light  cloud  which  merrily  and  gracefully  as- 
cended a  few  feet,  then  hung  about  the  chunney-corner 
as  its  own  domestic  heaven,  it  trolled  its  song  with  that 
strong  energy  of  cheerfuhiess,  that  its  iron  body  hummed 
and  stirred  upon  the  fire  ;  and  the  lid  itself,  the  recent 
rebelUous  lid, — such  is  the  influence  of  a  bright  exam- 
ple, —  performed  a  sort  of  jig,  and  clattered  like  a  deaf 
and  dumb  young  cymbal  that  had  never  known  the  use 
of  its  twin  brother. 

"•  That  this  song  of  the  kettle's  was  a  song  of  invita- 
tion and  welcome  to  somebody  out  of  doors, —  to  some- 
l.iody  at  that  moment  commg  on  towards  the  snug,  small 
home  and  the  crisp  fire,  —  there  is  no  doubt  whatever. 
Mrs.  Peerybingle  knew  it  perfectly,  as  she  sat  musing 


CPIAELES   DICKENS.  281 

before  the  hearth.  It's  a  dark  night,  sang  the  kettle, 
and  the  rotten  leaves  are  lying  by  the  way ;  and,  above, 
all  is  mist  and  darkness,  and,  below,  all  is  mire  and 
clay:  and  there's  only  one  relief  in  all  the  sad  and 
murky  air ;  and  I  don't  know  that  it  is  one  ;  for  it's 
nothing  but  a  glare  of  deep  and  angry  crimson,  where 
the  sun  and  wind  together  set  a  brand  upon  the  clouds 
for  being  guilty  of  such  weather ;  and  the  widest  open 
country  is  a  long,  dull  streak  of  black ;  and  there's  hoar- 
frost on  the  finger-post,  and  thaw  upon  the  track ;  and 
the  ice  it  isn't  Avater,  and  the  water  isn't  free  ;  and  you 
couldn't  say  that  any  thing  is  what  it  ought  to  be.  But 
he's  coming,  coming,  coming  !  — 

"  And  here,  if  you  like,  the  cricket  did  chime  in 
with  a  chirrup,  chirrup,  chirrup,  of  such  magnitude,  by 
way  of  chorus ;  with  a  voice  so  astoundingly  dispropor- 
tionate to  its  size,  as  compared  with  the  kettle,  (size !' 
you  couldn't  see  it ! )  that  if  it  had  then  and  there 
burst  itself  like  an  overcharged  gun,  if  it  had  fallen  a 
victim  on  the  spot,  and  chirruped  its  little  body  into  fifty 
pieces,  it  would  have  seemed  a  natural  and  inevitable 
consequence,  for  which  it  had  expressly  labored. 

"  The  kettle  had  had  the  last  of  its  solo  performance. 
It  persevered  with  undiminished  ardor  ;  but  the  cricket 
took  first  fiddle,  and  kept  it.  Good  heaven,  how  it 
chirped !  Its  shrill,  sharp,  piercing  voice  resounded 
through  the  house,  and  seemed  to  twinkle  in  the  outer 
darlmess  like  a  star.     There  was  an  indescribable  little 


282  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

trill  and  tremble  iii  it  at  its  loudest,  which  suggested  its 
being  carried  off  its  legs,  and  made  to  leap  again,  by  its 
own  intense  enthusiasm.  Yet  they  went  very  well  to-  J 
gether,  the  cricket  and  the  kettle.  The  burden  of  the 
song  was  still  the  same  ;  and  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 
they  sang  it  in  their  emulation.  I 

"  The  fair  little  listener  —  for  fair  she  was,  and  young,  j| 
though  something  of  what  is  called  the  dumpling  shape  ; 
but  I  don't  myself  object  to  that  —  lighted  a  candle, 
glanced  at  the  haymaker  on  the  top  of  the  clock,  who 
was  getting  in  a  pretty  average  crop  of  minutes,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  where  she  saw  nothing,  owing 
to  the  darkness,  but  her  own  face  imaged  in  the  glass. 
And  my  opinion  is  (and  so  would  yours  have  been) 
that  she  might  have  looked  a  long  way,  and  seen  noth- 
ing half  so  agreeable.  When  she  came  back,  and  sat 
down  in  her  former  seat,  the  cricket  and  the  kettle  were 
still  keeping  it  up  with  a  perfect  fury  of  competition  ; 
the  kettle's  weak  side  clearly  being,  that  he  didn't 
know  when  he  was  beat. 

"There  was  all  the  excitement  of  a  race  about- it. 
Chirp,  chirp,  chirp !  Cricket  a  mile  ahead.  Hum,  hum, 
hum  —  m  —  m  !  Kettle  making  play  in  the  distance, 
hke  a  great  top.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp  !  Cricket  round 
the  corner.  Hum,  hum,  hum  —  m  —  m  !  Kettle  stick- 
ing to  him  in  his  own  way, —  no  idea  of  giving  in. 
Cliirp,  chirp,  chir[) !  Cricket  fresher  than  ever.  Hum, 
hum,  hum  —  m  —  m!     Kettle  slow  and  steady.     Chirp, 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  288 

chirp,  cliirp  !  Cricket  going  in  to  finish  him.  Hum, 
hum,  hum  —  m  —  m  !  Kettle  not  to  be  finished.  Until 
at  last,  they  got  so  jumbled  together  in  the  hurry-skur- 
ry,  helter-skelter,  of  the  match,  that  whether  the  ket- 
tle chirped  and  the  cricket  hummed,  or  the  cricket 
chirped  and  the  kettle  hummed,  or  they  both  chirped 
and  both  hummed,  it  would  have  taken  a  clearer  head 
than  yours  or  mine  to  have  decided  with  any  thing  like 
certainty.  But  of  this  there  is  no  doubt,  —  that  the 
kettle  and  the  cricket,  at  one  and  the  same  moment,  and 
by  some  power  of  amalgamation  best  known  to  them- 
selves, sent  each  his  fireside  song  of  comfort  streaming 
into  a  ray  of  the  candle  that  shone  out  through  the  win- 
dow, and  a  long  way  down  the  lane.  And  this  light, 
bursting  on  a  certain  person,  who,  on  the  instant,  ap- 
proached towards  it  through  the  gloom,  expressed  the 
whole  thing  to  him,  literally  in  a  twinkling,  and  cried, 
'  Welcome  home,  old  fellow !  Welcome  home,  my 
boy!' 

"  This  end  attained,  the  kettle,  being  dead  beat, 
boiled  over,  and  was  taken  off  the  fire." 

One  brief  passage  from  "  The  Battle  of  Life  "  is  all 
which  can  here  be  given  ;  but  this  is  significant  in  a  time 
like  this  nineteenth  century,  fraught  with  "  wars,  and 
rumors  of  wars,"  on  the  battle-fields  of  the  Old  World 
and  the  New,  and  more  full  than  ever  of  moral  conflicts 
and  victories. 


284  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  '  I've  a  great  mind  to  say  it's  a  ridiculous  world 
altogether,  and  there's  nothing  serious  in  it,"  observed 
the  poor  old  doctor. 

"  '  You  might  take  twenty  affidavits  of  it,  if  you  chose, 
Anthon}","  said  his  sister;  'but  nobody  would  believe 
you  with  such  eyes  as  those.' 

"  '  It's  a  world  full  of  hearts,'  said  the  doctor,  hugging 
his  younger  daughter,  and  bending  across  her  to  hug 
Grace  (for  he  couldn't  separate  the  sisters),  'and  a 
serious  world,  with  all  its  foil}',  —  even  with  mine,  which 
was  enough  to  have  swamped  the  whole  globe ;  and  it 
is  a  world  on  which  the  sun  never  rises  but  it  looks 
upon  a  thousand  bloodless  battles  that  are  some  set-off 
against  the  miseries  and  wickedness  of  battle-fields  ;  and 
it  is  a  world  we  need  be  careful  how  we  libel,  —  Heaven 
forgive  us  !  —  for  it  is  a  world  of  sacred  mysteries  ;  and 
its  Creator  only  knows  what  lies  beneath  the  surface  of 
his  lightest  image." 

This  chapter,  though  already  so  long,  cannot  be  closed 
without  a  few  words  from  "  The  Haunted  Man,"  which 
are  dear  to  all  those  parents  who  have  angels  in  the 
skies  ;  who  say  with  "  Mabelle,"  *  that  — 

"  In  that  land  where  sin  can  ne'er  defile, 
There  waits  for  me  this  joy,  — 
To  find,  amid  that  bright  and  glittering  host, 
My  angel  blue-eyed  boy. 

*  Mrs.  M08CS  G.  Farmer. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  285 

A  little  wave  thrown  on  the  sea  of  life, 

But  not  its  storms  to  breast ; 
Only  a  day  to  struggle  with  the  tide, 

And  then  to  be  at  rest." 


"  In  tlie  few  moments  that  elapsed  while  Milly  silently 
took  him  to  the  gate,  the  chemist  dropped  into  his  chair, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Seeing  him  thus 
when  she  came  back,  accompanied  by  her  husband  and 
his  father  (who  were  both  greatly  concerned  for  him), 
she  avoided  disturbing  him,  or  permitting  him  to  be  dis- 
turbed, and  kneeled  down  near  the  chair  to  put  some 
warm  clothing  on  the  boy. 

" '  That's  exactly  where  it  is :  that's  what  I  always 
say,  father,'  exclaimed  her  admiring  husband,  — '  there's 
a  motherly  feeling  in  Mrs.  William's  breast  that  must 
and  will  have  went ! ' 

"  '  Ay,  ay,'  said  the  old  man :  '  you're  right.  ]\Iy  son 
William's  right.' 

"'It  happens  all  for  the  best,  Milly  dear,  no  doubt,' 
said  Mr.  William  tenderly,  '  that  we  have  no  children 
of  our  own ;  and  yet  I  sometimes  wish  you  had  one 
to  love  and  cherish.  Our  Httle  dead  child  that  you 
built  such  hopes  upon,  and  that  never  breathed  the 
breath  of  life,  — it  has  made  you  quiet-like,  Millj'.' 

"  ••  I  am  very  happy  m  the  recollection  of  it,'  William 
dear,'  she  answered.     '  I  think  of  it  every  day.' 

"  '  I  was  afraid  you  thought  of  it  a  good  deal.' 

"• '  Don't  say  afraid.    It  is  a  comfort  to  me,  it  spcaky 


286  LIFE  AND  WHITINGS  OP 

f 

to  me  in  so  many  different  ways.  Tlie  innocent  thing 
that  never  lived  on  earth  is  like  an  angel  to  me,  Wil- 
liam.' 

"  '  You  are  like  an  angel  to  father  and  me,'  said  Mr. 
William  softly.     '  I  know  that.' 

"  'When  I  think  of  all  those  hopes  I  built  upon  it, 
and  the  many  times  I  sat  and  pictured  to  myself  the 
little  smiling  face  upon  mj  bosom  that  never  lay  there, 
and  the  sweet  eyes  turned  up  to  mine  that  never  opened 
to  the  light,'  said  jMilly,  '  I  can  feel  a  greater  tenderness, 
I  think,  for  all  the  disappointed  hopes  in  which  there  is 
no  harm.  When  I  see  a  beautiful  child  in  its  fond 
mother's  arms,  I  love  it  all  the  better,  thinking  that  my 
child  might  have  been  like  that,  and  mioht  have  made 
my  heart  as  proud  and  happy.' 

"  Redlaw  raised  his  head,  and  looked  towards  her. 

"  '  All  through  life,  it  seems  by  me,'  she  continued, 
'  to  tell  me  something.  For  poor  neglected  children, 
my  little  child  pleads  as  if  it  were  alive,  and  had  a 
voice  I  knew,  with  which  to  speak  to  me.  When  I  hear 
of  youth  in  suffering  or  shame,  I  think  that  my  child 
might  have  come  to  that,  perhaps,  and  that  God  took  it 
from  me  in  his  mercy.  Even  in  age  and  gray  hair,  such 
as  father's,  it  is  present,  saying  that  it,  too,  might  have 
lived  to  be  old,  long  and  long  after  you  and  I  were  gone, 
and  to  have  needed  the  respect  and  love  of  younger 
people.' 

"  Her  quiet  voice  was  quieter  than  ever  as  she  took 
her  husband's  arm,  and  laid  her  head  against  it. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  287 

"  '  Children  love  me  so,  that  sometimes  I  half  fancy  — 
it's  a  silly  fancy,  William  —  they  have  some  way  I  don't 
Imow  of,  of  feeling  for  my  little  child  and  me,  and  un- 
derstanding why  their  love  is  precious  to  me.  If  I  have 
been  quiet  since,  I  have  been  more  happy,  Y\^illiam, 
in  a  hundred  ways ;  not  least  happy,  dear,  in  this, 
that  even  when  my  little  child  was  born  and  dead  but 
a  few  days,  and  I  was  weak  and  sorrowful,  and  could 
not  help  grieving  a  little,  the  thought  arose,  that,  if  I 
tried  to  lead  a  good  life,  I  should  meet  in  heaven  a 
bright  creature  who  would  call  me  mother.' 

"  Redlaw  fell  upon  his  knees  with  a  loud  cry. 

" '  O  Thou,'  he  said,  '  who,  through  the  teaching  of 
pure  love,  hast  graciously  restored  me  to  the  memory 
which  was  the  memory  of  Christ  upon  the  cross,  and  of 
all  the  good  who  perished  in  his  cause,  receive  mj 
thanks,  and  bless  her !  " 

"  Then  he  folded  her  to  his  heart ;  and  Millj^,  sobbing 
more  than  ever,  cried,  as  she  laughed, '  He  is  come  back 
to  himself !  He  likes  me  very  much  indeed  too  !  Oh, 
dear,  clear,  dear  me,  here's  another ! ' 

"  Then  the  student  entered,  leading  by  the  hand  a 
lovely  girl,  who  was  afraid  to  come.  And  Redlaw,  so 
changed  towards  him,  seeing  in  him  and  in  his  youthful 
choice  the  softened  shadow  of  that  chastening  passage 
in  his  own  life,  to  which,  as  to  a  shady  tree,  the  dove  so 
long  imprisoned  in  his  solitary  ark  might  fly  for  rest  and 
company,  fell  upon  his  neck,  entreating  them  to  be  his 
children. 


288  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  Then,  as  Christmas  is  a  time  in  which,  of  all  times 
in  the  year,  the  memory  of  every  remediable  sorrow, 
wrong,  and  trouble  in  the  world  around  us,  should  be 
active  with  us,  not  less  than  our  own  experiences  for  all 
good,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  boy,  and  silently  call- 
ing Him  to  witness  who  laid  his  hand  on  children  in  old 
time,  rebuking,  in  the  majesty  of  his  prophetic  knowl- 
edge, those  who  kept  them  from  him,  vowed  to  protect 
him,  teach  him,  and  reclaim  him." 

No  wonder,  that,  after  reading  these  sweet  Christmas- 
carols,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Murray  thus  apostrophized  the  de- 
parted author,  and  that  tens  of  thousands  echo  liis 
words :  — 

"  Nevermore  will  the  bells  ring  at  Christmas  Eve  but 
that  to  me  a  note  of  sadness  will  mingle  with  their 
chimes :  for  he  who  taught  the  world  the  lesson  of  the 
festival ;  who,  using  it  as  a  text,  preached  as  no  pu]pit 
ever  preached,  a  sermon  of  charity  and  love  ;  the  hand 
that  touched  the  bells  of  England,  and  made  the  whole 
world  melodious  with  Christian  chimes,  —  is  cold  and 
motionless  forever.  Farewell,  gentle  spirit !  thou  wast 
not  perfect  until  now.  Thou  didst  have  thy  passions, 
and  thy  share  of  human  errors ;  but  death  has  freed 
thee.  Thou  art  no  longer  trammelled.  Thou  art  de- 
livered out  of  bondage ;  and  thy  freed  spirit  walks  in 
glory.      Tliough   dead,   thou   speakest.      Tliy  voice   is 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  289 

universal  in  ite  reach.  The  ages  will  be  thy  audience. 
Thy  memory  will  be  as  a  growing  wreath  above  thy 
grave :  it  will  take  root  in  the  soil  that  covers  thee, 
and  with  the  years  renew  its  blossoms  and  its  leaves 
perennially." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

WHAT    ARE    THE    WILD    WAVES    SAYING? 
The  Daily  News.  —  Dombey  and  Son.  —  Death  of  Little  Paul. 

"  'Tis  the  voice  of  the  great  Creator 
That  dwells  in  that  mighty  tone." 

Anonymoub. 

"  The  Lord  on  high  is  mightier  than  the  noise  of  many  waters,  yea,  than  th#  j 
mighty  waves  of  the  sea."  —  Ps.  xciii.  4. 

OHEN  Mr.  Dickens  returned  to  London 
from  Italy,  he  tried  the  experiment  of 
publishing  a  daily  newspaper.  He  gath- 
ered about  him  a  brilliant  staff  of  writers, 
of  whom  he  was  the  chief,  and  issued  on 
Jan.  21,  1846,  the  first  number  of  "  The  Daily  News," 
a  paper  liberal  in  its  politics,  and  of  high  literary 
character.  In  this  paper  he  published  a  column  a  day 
of  his  sketches  from  Italy.  But  this  new  speculation 
did  not  prove  a  success,  and  soon  passed  into  the  hands 
of  another.  The  vocation  of  Mr.  Dickens  was  that  of 
a  novelist ;  and  the  drudgery  of  a  daily  editor's  life  was 
not  so  pleasant  or  so  profitable  for  him.  The  chief 
editor  of  "  The  Dq,ily  News  "  could  not  find  time  or 

209 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  291 

strengtli  for  new  novels,  and  therefore  it  was  well  for 
the  world  of  readers  when  the  novel-writer  returned  to 
the  vocation  for  which  he  was  specially  fitted ;  and 
during  the  years  1847  and  1848  appeared  "  Dealings 
with  the  Fu'm  of  Dombey  and  Son."  This  interesting 
novel  was  written  during  a  sojourn  in  Switzerland  and 
France  ;  and  the  closing  paragraph  of  its  preface  is  a  con- 
fidential reminiscence  which  is  now  tenderly  cherished. 

"  I  began  this  book,"  Mr.  Dickens  says,  after  an  obser- 
vation upon  the  character  of  Mr.  Dombey,  "  by  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  and  went  on  with  it  for  some  months 
in  France.  The  association  between  the  writing  and 
the  place  of  writing  is  so  strong  in  my  mind,  that  at  this 
day,  although  I  know  every  chair  in  the  little  midship- 
man's house,  and  could  swear  to  every  pew  in  the 
church  in  which  Florence  was  married,  or  to  every 
young  gentleman's  bedstead  in  Dr.  Blimber's  establish- 
ment, I  yet  confusedly  imagine  Capt.  Cuttle  as  seclud- 
ing himself  from  Mrs.  Mac  Stinger  among  the  moun- 
tains of  Switzerland.  Similarly,  when  I  am  reminded 
by  any  chance  of  what  it  was  that  the  waves  were 
always  saying,  I  wander  in  my  fancy  for  a  whole  win- 
ter night  about  the  streets  of  Paris,  —  as  I  really  did, 
with  a  heavy  heart,  on  the  night  when  my  little  friend 
and  I  parted  forever.'  " 

Mr.  Perkins,  in  his  biography  of  Mr.  Dickens,  thus 


292  LIFE  AND   WHITINGS  OP 

refers  to  "  Dombey  and  Son,"  and  says,  that,  "  like 
'  Martin  Chuzzlewit,'  it  has  what  may  be  called  a  distinct 
moral  unity,  resulting  from  the  shaping  of  the  characters 
and  the  story  so  as  to  teach  a  definite  moral  lesson.  In 
'  Chuzzlewit,'  this  lesson  is  the  evil  of  selfishness  ;  and  in 
the  combining  of  this  one  quality  with  all  the  other 
qualities  of  so  many  of  the  characters,  so  that  it  colors 
both  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad  in  them,  very  great 

power  and  skill  are  shown 

"  The  place  of  selfishness  in  '  Martin  Chuzzlewit '  is 
occupied  by  pride  in  '  Dombey  and  Son  ; '  and  although 
the  evil  quality  is  not  exhibited  in  so  many  phases  and 
persons,  yet  its  power  and  its  unhappy  consequences  are 
developed,  in  the  frightful  strife  between  the  ill-matched 
Dombey  and  his  wife,  with  a  gloomy  intensity  that 
teaches  its  lesson  most  effectively." 

The  account  which  ]\Ir.  Dickens  gave  of  the  sisterly 
kindness  of  Florence  Dombey  has  proved  an  incentive 
to  many  a  young  heart,  as  it  has  felt  itself  called  to 
assist  others  in  the  family  circle.     This  is  it :  — 

"  O  Saturdays  !  O  happy  Saturdays !  when  Floi-- 
ence  always  came  at  noon,  and  never  would,  in  any 
weather,  stay  away,  though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and 
growled  and  worried  her  bitterly.  Those  Saturdays 
were  sabbaths  for  at  least  two  little  Christians  among 
all  the  Jews,  and  did  the  holy  sabbath-work  of  strength- 
ening and  knitting  up  a  brother's  and  a  sister's  love. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  293 

"  Not  even  Sunday  nights  —  the  heavy  Sunday  nights, 
whose  shadow  darkened  the  first  waking  burst  of  light 
on  Sunday  mornings  —  could  mar  those  precious  Satur- 
days. Whether  it  was  the  great  seashore,  where  they 
sat  and  strolled  together,  or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  dull  back-room,  in  which  she  sang  to  him  so 
softly,  with  his  drowsy  head  upon  her  arm,  Paul  never 
cared.  It  was  Florence  :  that  was  all  he  thought  of. 
So  on  Sunday  nights,  when  the  doctor's  dark  door  stood 
agape  to  swallow  him  up  for  another  week,  the  time  was 
come  for  taking  leave  of  Florence, — no  one  else.  .  .  . 

"  Miss  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with 
Florence,  from  walking  back  with  Paul  to  the  doc- 
tor's, when  Florence  took  from  her  bosom  a-  little 
piece  of  paper  on  which  she  had  pencilled  down  some 
words. 

"  '  See  here,  Susan,'  she  said.  '  These  are  the  names 
of  the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those 
long  exercises  with  when  he  is  so  tired.  I  copied  them 
last  night  Avhile  he  was  writing.' 

" '  Don't  show  'em  to  me,  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please,' 
returned  Nipper.     '  I'd  as  soon  see  Mrs.  Pipchin.' 

"  '  I  want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you  will, 
to-morrow  morning.  I  have  money  enough,'  said  Flor- 
ence. .  .  . 

"  '  Well,  miss,  and  why  do  you  want  'em  ? '  replied 
Nipper ;  adding,  in  a  lower  voice,  '  if  it  was  to  fling  at 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  head,  I'd  buy  a  cart-load.' 


294  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

"  '  I  think  I  could,  perhaps,  give  Paul  some  help, 
Susan,  if  I  had  these  books,'  said  Florence,  '  and  make 
the  coming  week  a  little  easier  to  him.  At  least,  I  want 
to  try.  So  buy  them  for  me,  dear,  and  I  will  never  for- 
get how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  do  it.' 

"  It  must  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Susan  Nip- 
per's that  could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence 
held  out  with  these  words,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty 
with  which  she  seconded  her  petition.  Susan  put  the 
purse  in  her  pocket  without  rei)ly.  and  trotted  out  at 
once  upon  her  errand. 

"  The  books  were  not  eas}^  to  procure  ;  and  the  an- 
swer at  several  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  just  out 
of  theni,  or  that  they  never  kept  them,  or  they  had  had 
a  great  many  last  month,  or  that  they  expected  a  great 
many  next  week.  But  Susan  was  not  easily  baffled  in 
such  an  enterprise ;  and  having  entrapped  a  white- 
haired  3^outh,  in  a  black  calico  apron,  from  a  library 
where  she  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest, 
she  led  him  such  a  life  in  going  up  and  down,  that  he 
exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get 
rid  of  her,  and  finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in 
triumph. 

"  With  these  treasures,  then,  after  her  own  daily  les- 
sons were  over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track 
Paul's  footsteps  through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning ; 
and  being  possessed  of  a  naturally  quick  and  sound 
capacity,  and  taught  by  that  most  wonderful  of  mas- 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  295 

ters,  love,  it  was  not  long  before  she  gained  upon  Paul's 
heels,  and  caught  and  passed  him. 

"  Not  a  word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  : 
but  many  a  night  when  they  were  all  in  bed  ;  and  when 
Miss  Nipper,  with  her  hair  in  papers  and  herself  asleep 
in  some  uncomfortable  attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by 
her  side  ;  and  when  the  chinking  ashes  in  the  grate  were 
cold  and  gray ;  and  when  the  candles  were  burnt  down 
and  guttering  out,  —  Florence  tried  so  hard  to  be  a  sub- 
stitute for  one  small  Dombey,  that  her  fortitude  and 
perseverance  might  have  almost  won  her  a  free  right  to 
bear  the  name  herself. 

"  And  high  was  her  reward,  when  one  Saturday  even- 
ing, as  little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  '  resume 
his  studies,'  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  showed^  him 
all  that  was  so  rough  made  smooth,  and  all  that  was  so 
dark  made  clear  and  plain  before  him.  It  was  nothing 
but  a  startled  look  in  Paul's  wan  face,  —  a  flush,  a 
smile,  and  then  a  close  embrace  ;  but  God  knows 
how  her  heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  payment  for  her 
trouble.  , 

"  '  O  Floy ! '  cried  her  brother.  '  How  I  love  you  ! 
How  I  love  you,  Floy ! ' 

"  '  And  I  you,  dear  I '  ' 

'"Oh!  I  am  sure  of  that,  Floy.' 

"  He  said  no  more  about  it ;  but  all  that  evening  sat 
close  by  her,  very  quiet ;  and  in  the  night  he  called  out 
from  his  little  room  within  hers,  three  or  four  times,  that 
he  loved  her. 


296  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OF 

"  Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit 
down  with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  assist 
him  through  so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  together 
of  his  next  week's  work." 

The  chapter  treating  of  little  Paul's  last  hours  is  very 
toucliing  and  solemn.     It  is  as  follows  :  — 

"  Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay 
there,  listening  to  the  noises  in  the  street,  quite  tran- 
quill}^ ;  not  caring  much  how  the  time  went,  but  watch- 
ing it,  and  watching  every  thing  about  him,  with  ob- 
serving eyes. 

"  When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through 
the  rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall 
like  golden  water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming  on, 
and  that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflec- 
tion died  away,  and  a  gloom  went  creeping  uj)  the  wall, 
he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen,  into  night.  Then 
he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were  dotted  with  lamps, 
and  hov  the  peaceful  stars  Avere  shining  overhead.  His 
fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to  wander  to  the  river, 
which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great  city  ;  and 
now  he  thought  how  black  it  was,  and  hoAv  deep  it  would 
look  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars,  and,  more  than  all, 
how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

"  As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the 
street  became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming, 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  297 

count  them  as  they  passed,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow 
distance,  he  would  lie  and  count  the  many-colored  rings 
around  the  candle,  and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His 
only  trouble  was  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt 
forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it,  —  to  stem  it  with 
his  childish  hands,  or  choke  its  way  with  sand  ;  and, 
when  he  saw  it  coming  on  resistless,  he  cried  out.  But 
a  word  from  Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  re- 
stored him  to  himself ;  and,  leaning  his  poor  head  upon 
her  breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 
When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the 
sun ;  and,  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself  —  pictured  !  he  saw — the 
high  church-towers  rising  up  into  the  morning  sky, 
the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting  into  life  once  more, 
the  river  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever), 
and  the  country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and 
cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below  ;  the  servants 
in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy ;  faces  looked  in  at 
the  door ;  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly  hoAv  he 
was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  '  I  am  better : 
I  am  a  great  deal  better  !  thank  you.  Tell  papa  so.'  By 
little  and  little,  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle  of  the  day,  — 
the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  passing  and 
repassing,  —  and  would  fall  asleep,  or  be  troubled  with  a 
restless  and  uneasy  sense  again  —  the  child  could  hardly 
tell  whether  this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  waking  mo- 
ments—  of  that   rushing  river.     'Why  will   it   never 


298  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

stop,  Floy  ?  '  he  would  sometimes  ask  her.  '  It  is  bearing 
me  away,  I  think.' 

"  But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  re-assure  him ; 
and  it  was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  la}'-  her  head 
down  on  his  pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

"  '  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy  :  let  me  watch 
you  now.'  They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions  in 
a  corner  of  his  bed ;  and  there  he  would  recline  the 
while  she  lay  beside  him,  bending  forward  oftentimes  to 
kiss  her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near,  that 
she  was  tired,  and  liow  she  had  sat  up  so  many  nights 
beside  him.  Thus  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and 
its  light,  would  gradually  decline  ;  and  again  the  golden 
water  would  be  dancing  on  the  wall. 

"  He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors 
(they  used  to  assemble  down  stairs,  and  come  up  to- 
gether) ;  and  the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so 
observant  of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of  anybody 
what  they  said),  that  he  even  knew  the  difference  in 
the  sound  of  their  watches.  But  his  interest  centred 
in  Sir  Parker  Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  the 
side  of  the  l)ed.  For  Paul  had  heard  them  say,  long- 
ago,  that  the  gentleman  had  been  with  his  mamma  wlien 
she  clasped  Florence  in  her  arms  and  died  ;  and  he  could 
not  forget  it  now.  He  liked  him  for  it.  He  was  not 
afraid. 

"  The  people  round  him  changed  as  unaccountably  as 
on  that  first  night  at  Dr.  Blimber's  (except  Florence ; 


( 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  299 

Florence  never  changed)  ;  and  what  had  been  Sir  Par- 
ker Peps  was  now  his  father,  sitting  with  his  head  upon 
his  hand.  Old  Mrs.  Pipchin,  dozing  in  an  easy-chair, 
often  changed  to  Miss  Fox  or  his  aunt ;  and  Paul  was 
quite  content  to  shut  his  eyes  again,  and  see  what  hap- 
pened next  without  emotion.  But  this  figure,  with  its 
head  upon  its  hand,  returned  so  often,  and  remained  so 
long,  and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never  speaking,  never 
being  spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its  face,  that  Paul 
began  to  wonder  languidly  if  it  were  real,  and  in  the 
night-time  saw  it  sitting  there  with  fear. 

"  '  Floy,'  he  said,  '  what  is  that  ?  ' 

"  '  Where,  dearest  ? ' 

"  '  There,  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed.' 

"  '  There's  nothing  there,  except  papa.' 

"  The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and,  coming 
to  the  bedside,  said,  '  My  own  boy,  don't  you  know 
me  ? ' 

"  Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought.  Was  this 
his  father?  But  the  face  so  altered,  to  his  thinking, 
thrilled,  as  he  gazed,  as  if  he  were  in  pain ;  and  before  he 
could  reach  out  both  his  hands  to  take  it  between  them, 
and  draw  it  towards  him,  the  figure  turned  away  quickly 
from  the  little  bed,  and  went  out  at  the  door. 

"  Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a  fluttering  heart ;  but 
he  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stopped  her 
with  his  face  against  her  lips.  The  next  time  he  ob- 
served the  figure  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  he 
called  to  it,  — 


300  LIFE    AND  WRITINGS   OP 

"  '  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  clear  papa !  Indeed,  I  am 
quite  happy ! ' 

"  His  father,  coming,  and  bending  down  to  him, 
wliich  he  did  quickly,  and  without  first  pausing  by  the 
bedside,  Paul  held  him  round  the  neck,  and  repeated 
those  words  to  him  several  times,  and  very  earnestly ; 
and  Paul  never  saw  him  in  his  room  at  any  time, 
whether  it  were  day  or  night,  but  he  called  out,  '  Don't 
be  so  sorry  for  me  !  Indeed,  I  am  quite  happy  ! '  This 
was  the  beginning  of  his  alwaj^s  saying  in  the  morning 
that  he  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  they  were  to 
tell  his  father  so. 

"  How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the 
wall,  how  many  nights  the  dark,  dark  river  rolled  to- 
wards the  sea  in  spite  of  him,  Paul  never  counted, 
never  sought  to  know.  If  their  kindness,  or  his  sense 
of  it,  could  have  increased,  they  were  more  kind,  and  he 
more  grateful,  every  day  ;  but  whether  they  were  many 
days  or  few  appeared  of  little  moment  now  to  the 
gentle  boy. 

"  One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and 
her  picture  in  the  drawing-room  down  stairs,  and 
thought  she  must  have  loved  sweet  Florence  better 
than  his  father  did,  to  have  held  her  in  her  arms  when 
she  thought  she  was  dying  ;  for  even  he,  her  brother, 
who  had  such  dear  love  for  her,  could  have  no  greater 
wish  than  that.  The  train  of  thought  suggested  to  him 
to  inquire  if  he  had  ever  seen  his  mother ;  for  he  could 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  301 

not  remember  whether  they  had  told  him  yes  or  no,  the 
river  running  very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

"  '  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mamma  ? ' 

"  '  No,  darling,  why  ?  ' 

" '  Did  I  ever  see  any  kind  of  face  like  mamma's  look- 
ing at  me  when  I  was  a  baby,  Floy  ? ' 

"  He  asked  incredulously,  as  if  he  had  some  vision  of 
a  face  before  him. 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  dear  ! ' 

"  '  Whose,  Floy  ?  ' 

"  '  Your  old,  old  nurse's :   often.'       . 

"  '  And  where  is  my  old  nurse  ?  '  said  Paul.  '  Is  she 
dead  too  ?     Floy,  are  we  all  dead  except  you  ?  ' 

"  There  was  a  hurry  in  the  room  for  an  instant,  — 
longer,  perhaps  ;  but  it  seemed  no  more,  —  then  all  still 
again ;  and  Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colorless,  but 
smiling,  held  his  head  upon  her  arm.  Her  arm  trembled 
very  much. 

"  '  Show  me  the  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please  ?  ' 

" '  She  is  not  here,  darling.  She  shall  come  to- 
morrow.' 

"  '  Thank  you,  Floy  !  ' 

"  Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  these  words,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke,  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day 
was  clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a  little  while,  looking  at 
the  windows,  which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling 
in  the  air,  and  waving  to  and  fro ;  then  he  said, 
*  Floy,  is  it  to-morrow  ?     Is  she  come  ?  ' 


302  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

"  Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  Susan.  Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him, 
when  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon  be 
back ;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept  her 
word,  —  perhaps  she  had  never  been  away ;  but  the 
next  thing  that  happened  was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke,  —  woke  mind  and  body,  — 
and  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now  about 
him.  There  was  no  gray  mist  before  them,  as  there 
had  been  sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every 
one,  and  called  them  by  their  names. 

"  '  And  who  is  tliis  ?  Is  this  my  old  nurse  ?  '  said 
the  child,  regarding  with  a  radiant  smile  a  figure  coming 
in. 

"  Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those 
tears  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  boy,  her 
pretty  bo}^  her  own  poor  slighted  child.  No  other 
woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken 
lip  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast  as 
one  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it.  No  other  woman 
would  have  so  forgotten  everybody  else  but  him  and 
Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and  pity. 

"  '  Floy,  this  is  a  kind,  good  face,'  said  Paul.  '  I  am 
glad  to  see  it  again.  Don't  go  away,  old  nurse  ;  stay 
here.' 

"  His  senses  were  all  quickened ;  and  he  heard  a  name 
he  knew. 

"  '  Who  was  that  who  said,  "  Walter  "  ? '  he  asked,  and 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  303 

looked  around.  '  Some  one  said,  "■  Walter."  Is  he  here  ? 
I  should  like  to  see  him  very  much.' 

"  Nobod}^  replied  directly ;  but  his  father  soon  said  to 
Susan,  '  Call  him  back,  then  ;  let  him  come  up.'  After 
a  short  pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked 
with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and  saw 
that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought 
into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner,  and  his 
cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a  favorite  with 
Paul ;  and,  when  Paul  saw  him,  lie  stretched  out  his 
liand,  and  said,  '  Good-by  ! ' 

"  '  Good-by,  my  child !  '  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying 
to  his  bed's  head.     '  Not  good-by  ?  ' 

"  For  an  instant,  Paul  looked  at  her  with  tlie  wistful 
face  with  which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his 
corner  by  the  fire.  '  Ah,  yes  ! '  he  said  placidly,  '  good- 
by  !  Walter,  dear,  good-by  !"'  turning  his  head  to  where 
he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again.  '  Where  is 
papa  ?  ' 

"  He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek  before  the 
words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  '  Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,'  he  whispered,  look- 
inof  in  his  face.  '  Remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of 
Walter.'  The  feeble  hand  in  the  air,  as  if  it  cried 
'  Good-by  ! '  to  Walter  once  again. 

" '  Now  lay  me  down  again,'  he  said ;  '  and,  Floy, 
come  close  to  me,  and  let  me  see  you.' 

"  Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each 


304  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 

other ;  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell 
upon  them  locked  together. 

" '  How  fast  the  river  runs  between  its  green  banks 
and  the  rushes,  Floy  !  But  it's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear 
the  waves.     They  alwa^^s  said  so.' 

"  Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat 
upon  the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green 
the  banks  were  noAv !  how  bright  the  flowers  growing  on 
them  I  and  how  tall  the  rushes  !  Now  the  boat  was  out 
at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on ;  and  now  there  was  a 
shore  before  him.     Who  stood  on  the  bank  ? 

"  He  put  his  hands  together  as  he  had  been  used  to 
do  at  his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it ; 
but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so  behind  her  neck. 

"  '  Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face. 
But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  of  school  is 
not  divine  enough.  The  light  about  the  head  is  shining 
as  I  go.' 

"  The  golden  ripple  of  the  wall  came  back  again,  and 
nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion,  — 
the  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and 
will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll ;  the 
old,  old  fashion,  —  death  ! 

"  Oh !  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion 
3'et, —  immortality.  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young 
children,  with  regard  not  quite  estranged,  when  the 
swift  river  bears  us  to  the  ocean." 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  305 

The  chapter  containing  the  foregoing  is  headed  in  the 
novel,  "  What  are  the  wild  waves  saying  ?  " 

A  beautiful  song  has  been  written  by  some  one  with 
that  title,  which  is  twined  with  the  memory  of  Dickens 
and  httle  Paul.     It  will  fitly  close  this  chapter. 

'  What  are  tlie  wiW  waves  saving, 

Sister,  the  whole  day  long, 
Tliat  ever,  amid  our  playing, 

I  bear  but  their  low,  lone  song  ? 
Not  by  the  seaside  only 

(There  it  sounds  wild  and  free)  ; 
But  at  night,  when  'tis  dark  and  lonely, 

In  dreams  it  is  still  with  me. 

*  Brother,  I  hear  no  singing. 

'Tis  but  the  rolling  wave,  * 

♦  Ever  its  lone  course  winging 

Over  some  ocean  cave : 
'Tis  but  the  noise  of  water 

Dashing  against  the  shore  ; 
A  wind  from  some  bleaker  quarter 
Mingling  with  its  roar. 

"  No  :  it  is  something  greater. 

That  speaks  to  the  heart  alone. 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  gi-eat  Creator 
That  dwells  in  that  mighty  tone. 

"  Yes  :  but  the  waves  seem  ever 

Singing  the  same  sad  thing ; 
And  vain  is  my  weak  endeavor 

To  guess  what  the  surges  sing. 
20 


306  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS. 

What  is  that  voice  repeating 
Ever  by  night  and  day  ? 

Is  it  a  friendly  greeting, 

Or  a  warning  that  calls  away? 

"Brother,  the  inland  mountain. 

Hath  it  not  voice  and  sound  ? 
Speaks  not  the  dripping  fountain 

As  it  bedews  the  ground  ? 
E'en  by  the  household  ingle, 

Curtained  and  closed  and  warm, 
Do  not  our  voices  mingle 

With  those  of  the  distant  storm  ? 

*'  Yes ;  but  there's  something  greater 
That  speaks  to  the  heart  alone  : 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  great  Creator 
That  dwells  in  that  mighty  tone." 


CHAPTER   X. 


HIS     MASTERPIECE. 


The  Reality  of  Fiction.  — David  Copperfield.  —  Opinion  of  Fraser's   Magazine. 
Tlie  Shipwreck.  —  Uriah  Heap.  — Little  Em'ly.— A  Lone,  Lorn  Creetur. 

"  The  gnashing  billows  heaved  and  fell; 
Wild  shrieked  the  midnight  gale; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  morning  swell 
Were  pennant,  spar,  and  sail." 

O.  W.  Holmes. 

"  There  is  sorrow  on  the  sea."  —  Jer.  xlix.  23. 


SENSIBLE  writer  in  "  Tlie  Christian  Ex- 
aminer" for  September,  1863,  discusses  tlie 
utility  and  moral  effect  of  the  drama  and 
the  novel ;  and,  according  to  his  method 
of  argument,  Charles  Dickens  was  a  bene- 
factor to  the  readers  of  "  David  Copperfield,"  and   to 
those  who  have  v/itnessed  the  touching  drama  of  "  Lit- 
tle Em'lj,"  founded  upon  the  same. 

The  story-telling  and  the  story-reading  propensity  are 
utterly  indestructible  ;  and  the  following  passages  from 
that  excellent  article  on  "  The  Reality  of  Fiction  "  show 
where  lies  the  danger  in  the  literature  of  the  imagina- 
tion :  — 

807 


308  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OP 

"  This  ever-increasing  enlargement  of  the  domain  of 
that  imaginative  literatnre  which  ah-eady  exists,  or  is  to 
he  given  to  the  workl,  refutes  all  the  fears  and  lamenta- 
tions about  its  decay  and  disappearance ;  as  if  it  were 
to  be  submerged  and  lost  under  the  flooding  sweep  of  a 
despotic  and  universal  utilitarianism ;  as  if  He  Avho 
made  the  soul  would  allow  its  finest  and  most  delicate 
powers  to  lie  dormant,  and  rust  out ;  as  if,  under  the 
Providence  which  arrays  the  lilies,  piles  up  the  splen- 
dors of  ever-changing  cloud-scenery,  flashes  across  the 
north  and  up  to  the  zenith  the  mystic  brilliancy  of  the 
aurora,  bends  tlie  rainbow-hues  of  hope,  and  garlands 
our  daily  bread  with  flowers,  —  as  if,  luider  this  Provi- 
dence, so  prodigal  in  dispensations  of  beauty,  and  ever 
revelling  in  infinite  forms  of  grace,  man  will  be  suffered 
to  degenerate  into  a  worshipper  of  machinery,  and  an 
idolater  of  the  golden  calf. 

"  When  the  parables  are  stricken  from  the  Bible, 
when  the  story  of  Joseph  ceases  to  be  told,  and  David's 
lyrics  are  no  longer  chanted,  then  the  curtain  Avill  fall 
upon  the  last  drama,  and  the  poet  sing  his  last  note  to 
the  deaf,  and  the  novelist  write  his  last  romance  for  the 
blind.  The  realm  of  imagination  to  be  annihilated  !  — 
why,  it  came  into  existence  when  order  came  out  of 
chaos,  and  was  in  the  joyous  song  the  morning  stars 
sang  together.  All  races  and  all  climes  have  colonized 
it.  It  is  the  realm  of  the  spirit,  wherein  the  spirit  often 
lives  its  purest  life,  gets  its  sweetest  expression,  and 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  309 

learns  to  transfigure  the  drudgery  of  the  work-day  world. 
It  shares  the  spirit's  immortality,  and  can  never  cease 
to  be." 

"David  Copperfield"  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
novels  of  Dickens.  A  writer  in  "  Eraser's  Magazine  " 
for  December,  1850,  indicates  the  opinion  of  the  Eng- 
lish concerning  it.  He  says,  "  This,  the  last,  is,  in  our 
opinion,  the  best  of  all  the  author's  fictions.  The  plot 
is  better  contrived,  and  the  interest  more  sustained,  than 
in  any  other.  Here  there  is  no  sickly  sentinjent,  no 
prolix  description,  and  scarcely  a  trace  of  exaggerated 
passion.  The  author's  taste  has  become  gradually  more 
and  more  refined :  his  style  has  got  to  be  more  easy, 
graceful,  and  natural.  The  principal  groups  are  delin- 
eated as  carefully  as  ever ;  but,  instead  of  the  elaborate 
Dutch  painting  to  which  we  had  been  accustomed  in  his 
backgrounds  and  accessories,  we  have  now  a  single 
vigorous  touch  here  and  there,  which  is  far  more  artis- 
tic and  far  more  eifective.  His  winds  do  not  howl,  nor 
his  seas  roar,  through  whole  chapters,  as  formerly:  he 
has  become  better  acquainted  with  his  readers,  and  ven- 
tures to  leave  more  to  their  imagination.  This  is  the 
first  time  that  the  hero  has  been  made  to  tell  his  own 
story,  —  a  plan  which  generally  insures  something  like 
epic  unity  for  the  tale.  We  have  several  reasons  for 
suggesting  that  here  and  there,  under  the  name  of 
'David  Copperfield,'  we  have  been  favored  with  pas- 


310  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS  OF 

sages  from  the  personal  history,  adventures,  and  expe- 
riences of  Charles  Dickens.  Indeed,  this  conclusion  is 
in  a  manner  forced  upon  us  by  the  peculiar  professions 
selected  for  the  ideal  character,  who  is  first  a  news- 
paper-reporter, and  then  a  famous  novelist.  There  is, 
moreover,  an  air  of  reality  pervading  the  whole  book, 
to  a  degree  never  attained  in  any  of  his  previous  works, 
and  which  cannot  be  entirely  attributed  to  the  mere  form 
of  narration.  .  .  .  David  Copperfield  the  younger  was 
born  at  Blunderstone,  near  Yarmouth,  —  there  is  really 
a  village  of  that  name.  We  do  not  know  whether 
Charles  Dickens  was  born  there  too  :  at  all  events,  the 
number  and  minuteness  of  the  local  details  indicate 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  and  fondness  for  Yarmouth 
and  its  neighborhood." 

The  only  quotation  from  "  David  Copperfield  "  which 
will  be  given  here  is  that  portion  where  the  wreck  is 
described  in  language  which  will  call  up  similar  sights 
to  many  dwellers  by  the  sea :  — 

"  It  was  broad  day,  —  eight  or  nine  o'clock ;  the 
storm  raging  in  lieu  of  the  batteries,  and  some  one 
knocking  and  calling  at  my  door. 

"  '  What  is  the  matter  ?'  I  cried. 

"  '  A  wreck,  —  close  by ! ' 

"  I  sprung  out  of  bed,  and  asked,  '  What  wreck  ? ' 

" '  A  schooner  from   Spain   or  Portugal,  laden  with 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  311 

fj-uit  and  wine.  Make  haste,  sir,  if  you  want  to  see  her ! 
It's  thought,  down  on  the  beach,  she'll  go  to  pieces  every 
moment.' 

"  The  excited  voice  went  clamoring  along  the  stair- 
case ;  and  I  wrapped  myself  in  my  clothes  as  quickly  as 
I  could,  and  ran  into  the  street. 

"  Numbers  of  jDeople  were  there  before  me,  all  run- 
ning in  one  direction,  —  to  the  beach.  I  ran  the  same 
way,  outstripping  a  good  many,  and  soon  came  facing 
the  wild  sea. 

"  The  wind  might  by  this  time  have  lulled  a  little, 
though  not  more  sensibly  than  if  the  cannonading  I  had 
dreamed  of  had  been  diminished  by  the  silencing  of  half 
a  dozen  guns  out  of  hundreds.  But  the  sea,  having 
upon  it  the  additional  agitation  of  the  whole  night,  was 
infinitely  more  terrific  than  when  I  had  seen  it  last. 
Every  appearance  it  had  then  presented  bore  the  ex- 
pression of  being  swelled  ;  and  the  height  to  which  the 
breakers  rose,  and,  looking  over  one  another,  bore  one 
another  down,  and  rolled  in  in  interminable  hosts,  was 
most  appalling. 

"  In  the  difficulty  of  hearing  any  thing  but  wind  and 
waves,  and  in  the  crowd,  and  the  unspeakable  confu- 
sion, and  my  first  breathless  efforts  to  stand  against 
the  weather,  I  was  so  confused,  that  I  looked  out  to  sea 
for  the  wreck,  and  saw  nothing  but  the  foaming  heads 
of  the  great  waves.  A  half-dressed  boatman  standing 
next  me  pointed  with  his  bare  arm  (a  tattooed  arrow  on 


312  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

it  pointing  in  the  same  direction)  to  the  left.  Then,  O 
great  Heaven !  I  saw  it  close  in  upon  us. 

"  One  mast  was  broken  short  off  six  or  eight  feet  from 
the  deck,  and  lay  over  the  side,  entangled  in  a  maze 
of  sails  and  rigging ;  and  all  that  ruin,  as  the  ship 
rolled  and  beat;  —  which  she  did  without  a  moment's 
pause,  and  with  a  violence  quite  inconceivable,  —  beat 
the  side  as  if  it  would  stave  it  in.  Some  efforts  were 
even  then  being  made  to  cut  this  portion  of  the  wreck 
away  ;  for  as  the  ship,  wliich  was  broadside  on,  turned 
towards  us  in  her  rolling,  I  plainly  descried  her  peo- 
ple at  work  with  axes,  —  especially  one  active  figure  with 
long  curling  hair,  conspicuous  among  the  rest.  But  a 
great  cry,  which  was  audible  even  above  the  wind  and 
water,  rose  from  the  shore  at  this  moment.  The  sea, 
sweeping  over  the  rolling  wreck,  made  a  clean  breach, 
and  carried  men,  spars,  casks,  planks,  bulwarks,  heaps  of 
such  toys,  into  the  boiling  surge. 

"  The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with  the  rags 
of  a  rent  sail,  and  a  wild  confusion  of  broken  cordage 
flaj^ping  to  and  fro.  '  The  ship  had  struck  once,'  the 
same  boatman  hoarsely  said  in  my  ears,  '  and  then  lifted, 
and  struck  again.'  I  understood  him  to  add,  that  she 
was  parting  amidships  ;  and  I  could  readily  suppose  so, 
for  the  rolling  and  beating  were  too  tremendous  for 
any  human  work  to  suffer  long.  As  he  spoke,  there 
was  another  great  cry  of  pity  from  the  beach  :  four 
men  arose  with  the  wreck  out  of  the  deep,  clinging  to 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  313 

llie  rigging  of  the  remaining  mast,  —  uppermost,  tiie 
active  figure  with  the  curHng  hair. 

"  There  was  a  bell  on  board ;  and  as  the  ship  rolled 
and  dashed,  like  a  desperate  creature  driven  mad,  —  now 
showing  us  the  whole  sweep  of  her  deck,  as  she  turned 
on  her  beam-ends  towards  the  shore ;  now  nothing  but 
her  keel,  as  she  sprang  wildly  over,  and  turned  towards 
the  sea,  — the  bell  rang ;  and  its  sound,  the  knell  of  those 
unhappy  men,  was  borne  towards  us  on  the  wind. 
Again  we  lost  her,  and  again  she  rose.  Two  men  were 
gone.  The  agony  on  the  shore  increased ;  men  groaned, 
and  clasped  their  hands ;  women  shrieked,  and  turned 
away  their  faces.  Some  ran  Avildly  up  and  down  along 
the  beach,  crying  for  help  where  no  help  could  be.  I 
found  myself  one  of  these,  frantically  imploring  a  knot 
of  sailors  whom  I  knew,  not  to  let  those  two  lost  crea- 
tures perish  before  our  eyes. 

"  They  were  making  out  to  me  in  an  agitated  way,  —  I 
don't  know  how ;  for  the  little  I  could  hear  I  was 
scarcely  composed  enough  to  understand,  —  that  the 
life-boat  had  been  bravely  manned  an  hour  ago,  and 
could  do  nothing  ;  and  that,  as  no  man  would  be  so 
desperate  as  to  attempt  to  wade  off  with  a  rope,  and 
establish  a  communication  with  the  shore,  there  Avas 
nothing  left  to  try  :  when  I  noticed  that  some  new 
sensation  moved  the  people  on  the  beach,  and  saw  them 
part,  and  Ham  come  breaking  through  them  to  the  front. 
I  ran  to  liim,  as  well  as  I  know,  to  repeat  my  appeal  for 


314  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

help.  But  distracted  though  I  was  by  a  sight  so  new  to 
me,  and  terrible,  the  determination  in  his  face,  and  his 
look  out  to  sea,  —  exactly  the  same  look  as  I  remem- 
bered in  connection  with  the  morning  after  Em'ly's 
flight, — awoke  me  to  a  knowledge  of  his  danger.  I 
held  him  back  with  both  arms,  and  implored  the  men 
with  whom  I  had  been  speaking  not  to  listen  to  him, 
not  to  do  murder,  not  to  let  him  stu^  off  that  sand. 

"  Another  cry  arose  on  shore  ;  and,  looking  to  the 
wreck,  we  saw  the  cruel  sail,  with  blow  on  blow,  beat 
off  the  lower  of  the  two  men,  and  fly  up  in  triumph 
around  the  active  figure  left  alone  upon  the  mast. 

"  Against  such  a  sight,  and  against  such  determination 
as  that  of  the  calmly-desperate  man  who  was  already 
accustomed  to  lead  half  the  people  present,  I  might  as 
hopefully  have  entreated  the  wind.  '  Mas'r  Davy,'  he 
said,  cheerily  grasping  me  by  both  hands,  '  if  my  time 
is  come,  'tis  come :  if  't'aint,  I'll  bide  it.  Lord  above, 
bless  you,  and  bless  all !  Mates,  make  we  ready  !  I'm 
agoing  off! ' 

"  I  was  swept  away,  but  not  unkindly,  to  some  distance, 
where  the  people  around  me  made  me  stay ;  urging,  as  I 
confusedly  perceived,  that  he  was  bent  on  going,  with 
help  or  without,  and  that  I  should  endanger  the  precau- 
tions for  his  safety  by  troubling  those  with  whom  they 
rested.  I  don't  know  what  I  answered,  or  what  they 
rejoined  ;  but  I  saw  hurry  on  the  beach,  and  men  rim- 
ning  with  ropes  from  a  capstan  that  was  there,  and  pene- 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  315 

trating  into  a  circle  of  figures  that  hid  him  from  me.  Then 
I  saw  him  standing  alone,  in  a  seaman's  frock  and  trou- 
sers, a  rope  in  his  hand  or  slung  to  his  wrist,  another 
round  his  body,  and  several  of  the  best  men  holding,  at 
a  little  distance,  to  the  latter,  which  he  laid  out  himself, 
slack  upon  the  shore,  at  his  feet. 

"  The  wreck,  even  to  my  unpractised  eje,  was  break- 
ing up.  I  saw  that  she  was  parting  in  the  middle,  and 
that  the  life  of  the  solitary  man  upon  the  mast  hung  by  a 
thread.  StiU  he  clung  to  it.  He  had  a  singular  red 
cap  on,  —  not  like  a  sailor's  cap,  but  of  a  finer  color ; 
and  as  the  few  yielding  planks  between  him  and  destruc- 
tion rolled  and  bulged,  and  his  anticipative  death-knell 
rung,  he  was  seen  by  all  to  wave  it.  I  saw  him  do  it 
now,  and  thought  I  was  going  distracted,  when  his 
action  brought  an  old  remembrance  to  my  mind  of  a 
once  dear  friend. 

"  Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with  the 
silence  of  suspended  breath  behind  him,  and  the  storm 
before,  until  there  was  a  great  retiring  wave,  when, 
with  a  backward  glance  at  those  who  held  the  rope, 
which  was  made  fast  round  his  body,  he  dashed  in 
after  it,  and  in  a  moment  was  buffeting  with  the  water ; 
rising  with  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  be- 
neath the  foam,  then  drawn  again  to  land.  They 
hauled  in  hastily. 

"  He  was  hurt.  I  saw  blood  on  his  face,  from  where 
I  stood ;  but  he  took  no  thought  of  that.     He  seemed 


316  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OF 

hurriedly  to  give  tliem  some  directions  for  leaving  him 
more  free,  or  so  I  judged  from  the  motion  of  his  arm, 
and  was  gone  as  before. 

"  And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising  with  the 
hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  beneath  the  rugged 
foam,  borne  in  towards  the  shore,  borne  on  towards 
the  ship,  striving  hard  and  valiantly.  The  distance  was 
nothing  ;  but  the  power  of  the  sea  and  wind  made  the 
strife  deadl3^  At  length  he  neared  the  wreck.  He  was 
so  near,  that,  with  one  more  of  his  vigorous  strokes,  he 
would  be  clinging  to  it,  when  a  high,  green,  vast 
hillside  of  water,  moving  on  shoreward  from  beyond 
the  ship,  he  seemed  to  leap  up  into  it  with  a  mighty 
bound,  and  the  ship  was  gone  ! 

"  Some  eddying  fragments  I  saw  in  the  sea,  as  if  a 
mere  cask  had  been  broken  in  running  to  the  spot 
where  they  were  hauling  in.  Consternation  was  in 
every  face.  They  drew  him  to  my  very  feet,  insen- 
sible, dead.  He  was  carried  to  tlie  nearest  house ; 
and,  no  one  preventing  me  now,  I  remained  near  him, 
busy,  wliile  every  means  of  restoration  were  tried  :  but 
he  had  been  beaten  to  death  by  the  great  wave  ;  and  his 
generous  heart  was  stilled  forever. 

"  As  I  sat  beside  the  bed,  when  hope  was  abandoned, 
and  all  was  done,  a  fisherman,  who  had  known  me  when 
Em'ly  and  I  were  children,  and  ever  since,  whispered 
my  name  at  the  door. 


CHAELES    DICKENS.  317 

"  '  Sir,'  said  he,  with  tears  starting  to  his  weather- 
beaten  face,  which,  with  his  trembling  hps,  was  ashy- 
pale,  '  will  you  come  over  yonder  ?  ' 

"  The  old  remembrance  that  had  been  recalled  to  me 
was  in  his  look.  I  asked  him,  terror-stricken,  leaning 
on  the  arm  he  held  out  to  support  me,  — 

"  '  Has  a  body  come  ashore  ?  ' 

"  He  said,  '  Yes.' 

'"  Do  I  know  it  ? '  I  asked  then. 

"  He  answered  nothing. 

"  But  he  led  me  to  the  shore.  And  on  that  part  of  it 
where  she  and  I  had  looked  for  shells,  two  children,  — 
on  that  part  of  it  where  some  lighter  fragments  of  the 
old  boat,  blown  down  last  night,  had  been  scattered  by 
the  wind ;  among  the  ruins  of  the  home  he  had 
wronged,  —  I  saw  him  lying  with  his  head  upon  his 
arm,  as  I  had  often  seen  him  lie  at  school." 

The  whole  story  of  "  David  Copperfield "  deserves 
perusal  before  any  decision  as  to  its  real  merits  can  be 
rendered  ;  and  then  one  ought  to  see  it  dramatized,  that 
the  mean,  cringing,  despicable  Uriah  Heep,  and  the 
self-reliant,  decided  Betsey  Trotwood,  the  great-hearted 
Peggotty,  the  fihal  Agnes,  and  the  poor  Little  Em'ly, 
might  be  fully  comprehended.  Nor  should  the  "  lone, 
lorn  creetur,"  nor  the  irrepressible  Mr.  Micawber,  ever 
looking  for  something  to  "  turn   up,"  be   overlooked. 


318  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS. 

Both  novel  and  drama  will  make  one  bless  the  name  of 
Charles  Dickens,  and  write  his  name  — 

"  Among  the  few,  the  immortal  names 
That  were  not  born  to  die." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

RETURNS   TO    HIS   EARLY   PRACTICE. 
Bleak  House.  —  Death  of  Poor  Jo.  —  Uncommercial  Traveller. 

"  Ay !  idleness  I    The  rich  folks  never  fail 
To  find  some  reason  why  the  poor  deserve 
Their  miseries." 

SOCTHEY. 

"  For  the  oppression  of  the  poor,  for  the  sighing  of  the  needy,  now  will  I  arise, 
Baith  the  Lord :  I  will  set  him  in  safety  from  him  that  puffeth  at  him."  —  Ps.  xii.  5. 


WO  years  after  "  David  Copperfield " 
found  a  warm  greeting  from  the  public, 
Mr.  Dickens  gave  "  Bleak  House  "  to  the 
world ;  which  novel  met  a  cooler  recep- 
tion. In  this  book,  Mr.  Dickens  seemed 
to  return  to  his  early  practice  of  writing  with  some 
definite  purpose ;  and,  "  though  Skimpole  and  Boythorn 
were  genial  caricatures  of  the  external  peculiarities  and 
individual  mannerisms  of  Leigh  Hunt  and  Walter  Sav- 
age Landor,  the  purpose  of  the  novel  was  to  satirize 
the  dilatory  procedure  of  the  court  of  chancery."  So 
says  one  writer ;  and  another  adds,  "  It  was  thought  by 
many  that  this  work  was  of  a  second  grade  ;  that  it  did 

819 


320  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

not  show  so  much  force  of  thought,  strength  of  repre- 
sentation, brilUancy  of  fancy  and  of  style,  in  short, 
not  so  much  of  any  of  its  author's  great  qualities,  as 
the  previous  novels.  Yet,  if  any  distinction  can  be 
drawn  between  the  two  series  of  works,  it  is  probably 
only  in  the  quantity  of  gayety  and  humor  in  them. 
Whatever  the  power  of  the'  serious  characters  of  the 
later  noVels,  as  compared  with  the  earlier,  the  mirthful 
element  is  far  less  frequent  in  the  later." 

C.  C.  Terry,  in  "  The  Christian  Leader,"  thus  refers 
to  Mr.  Dickens  and  to  "  Bleak  House." 

"  The  great  secret  of  the  success  of  Dickens  was, 
that  all  of  his  characters  were  human  and  real.  .  .  . 

"  Dickens  was  the  foe  of  all  shams ;  but  instead  of 
using  the  keen  blade  of  satire,  like  his  great  contem- 
porary, Thackeray,  he  brought  to  bear  the  sunshine  of 
his  humor  on  the  wrongs  of  his  times.  .  .  .  Shakspeare, 
in  the  whole  range  of  his  delineation  of  character,  has 
produced  no  creation  like  Little  Nell  or  Paul  Dom- 
bey  ;  nor  has  Sir  Walter  Scott,  witli  the  splendor  of 
kings  and  princes,  and  the  pomp  of  tournaments,  in  all 
the  pages  of  his  productions  written  a  scene  like  the 
death  of  Poor  Jo,  in  '  Bleak  House.' 

"  '  It's  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin'-ground, 
sir,'  he  returns,  with  a  wild  look. 

" '  Lie  down,  and  tell  me.  What  burying-ground, 
Jo?' 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  321 

"  '  Where  they  laid  him  as  was  weiy  good  to  me  ; 
wery  good  to  me  indeed,  he  was.  It's  time  for  me  to 
go  down  to  that  there  berrym'-ground,  sir,  and  ask  to 
be  put  along  with  him.' 

" '  By  and  by,  Jo,  by  and  by.' 

"  '  Ah  !  p'raps  they  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  avos  to  go  my- 
self. But  will  you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir, 
and  have  me  laid  along  with  him  ?  ' 

"  '  I  will,  indeed.' 

"  '  Thankee,  sir,  thankee,  sir  !  They'll  have  to  get 
the  key  of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take  me  in ;  for  it's 
alius  locked.  And  there's  a  step  there,  as  I  used  for  to 
clean  with  my  broom.  It's  turned  wery  dark,  sir.  Is 
there  any  light  a-comin'  ?  ' 

" '  It  is  coming  fast,  Jo.' 

"  '  Fast !  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the 
rugged  road  is  vei^  near  its  end.' 

"  '  Jo,  my  poor  fellow  !  ' 

" '  I  hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark ;  but  I'm  a-gropin', 
a-gropin' :  let  me  catch  hold  of  your  hand.' 

"  '  Jo,  can  you  say  what  I  say  ?  ' 

"  '  I'll  say  any  think  as  you  say,  sir ;  for  I  know  it's 
good.' 

"  '  Our  Father.' 

"  '  Our  Father,  —  yes,  that's  wery  good,  sir.' 

"  'Which  art  in  heaven.' 

"  '  Art  in  heaven,  —  is  the  light  a-comin',  sir  ?  ' 

"  '  It  is  close  at  hand.     Hallowed  be  thy  name." 

21 


322  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS   OF 

"  '  Hallowed  be  —  tliy  —  name.' 

"  The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark  benighted  way. 
Dead  ! 

" '  Dead,  your  Majesty ;  dead,  my  lords  and  gentle- 
men ;  dead,  right  reverends  and  wrong  reverends  of 
every  order  ;  dead,  men  and  women  born  with  heavenly 
compassion  in  3^our  hearts.  And  dying  thus  around  us 
every  day.' " 

Well  does  Mr.  Terry  say,  "  Two  nations  mourn  for 
the  loss  of  Charles  Dickens  ;  but  we  cannot  miss  him 
now  as  much  as  we  shall  when  Christmas  comes.  When 
the  snow  is  on  the  ground,  and  through  the  naked 
branches  of  the  trees  the  red  light  of  Christmas  Eve 
fades  slowly  away,  and  darkness  settles  down,  and  the 
great  stars  come  out  one  by  one,  we  shall  ask  for  the 
enchantment  of  his  genius  ;  and  the  (inly  answer  will  be 
the  gloom  of  the  night  that  has  gathered  around  his 
tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey.  But  when  the  Christmas 
chimes  are  rung,  and  the  glad  notes  of  the  bells  peal 
out  upon  the  frosty  air,  let  us  not  forget  the  lessons  of 
Christian  charity  that  Charles  Dickens  has  taught  to  the 
world." 

Very  sensibly  does  "  The  Boston  Journal "  remark,  — 

"  We  trust,  that,  amid  all  the  dispute  which  has  raged 
as  to  the  religious  and   other  peculiarities   of  Charles 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  323 

Dickens,  the  true  example  of  his  life  as  a  conscientious 
and  indefatigable  worker  will  not  be  lost  upon  the  young 
of  this  generation.  .  .  .  His  habits  of  labor  were  regu- 
lar as  those  of  a  book-keeper  or  a  bank-clerk,  and 
certainly  no  less  arduous.  An  artist  who  occupied  the 
same  room  with  him  for  some  time  was  surprised  at  the 
anxious  assiduity  with  which  he  prosecuted  his  writing. 
Said  he,  '  I  looked  in  his  face,  and  watched  the  anxiety 
and  care.  I  saw  the  blotting  and  the  re-writing  of  his 
works ;  and  I  was  astonished  to  find  how  much  he  owed 
to  his  indomitable  perseverance.'  " 


CHAPTER    XII. 

LATER   WORKS. 

Little  Dorritt.  —  Hard  Times.  — Dr.  Marigold. 

"  And  the  winds  and  the  waters 

In  pastoral  measures 
Go  winding  around  us,  with  roll  upon  roll, 

Till  the  soul  lies  within 
In  a  circle  of  pleasures, 

Which  hideth  the  soul." 

Miss  Barrett. 

•  As  the  moimtaina  are  round  about  Jerusalem ;  so  the  Lord  is  round  about  his 
people  from  henceforth,  even  forever."  —  Ps.  cxv.  2. 

FTER  "Bleak  House"  came  "Little 
Dorritt,"  not  so  attractive  as  some  of  Mr. 
Dickens's  books,  but  yet  full  of  its  own 
peculiar  interest.  It  contains  some  fine 
descriptions,  among  which  is  one  of  a 
scene  amid  the  Alps,  for  which  we  would  gladly  find 
space  if  possible. 

Among  the  serials  afterwards  published  was  one 
called  "  Hard  Times ;  "  the  first  book  of  which  is  called 
"  Sowing,"  the  next  "  Reaping,"  the  third  "  Garner- 
ing," and  wherein  Mr.  Gradgrind  achieves  his  immor- 
tality, —  "a  man    of    realities,   a  man   of    facts    and 

324 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  325 

calculations."  In  this  occur  the  thrilling  passages  de- 
scribing poor  Stephen's  fall  into  the  pit,  and  his  rescue. 
Very  touching  are  Stephen's  words  concerning  the  star 
which  shone  into  the  pit  where  he  laj.  And  thus  the 
tale  concludes :  — 

"  The  bearers  being  now  ready  to  carry  him  away, 
and  the  surgeon  being  anxious  for  his  removal,  those 
who  had  torches  or  lanterns  prepared  to  go  in  front  of 
the  Utter.  Before  it  was  raised,  and  while  the}'-  were 
arranging  how  to  go,  he  said  to  Rachael,  looking  upward 
at  the  star,  — 

"  '  Often  as  I  coom  to  myseln,  and  found  it  shinin'.  on 
me  down  there  in  my  trouble,  I  thowt  it  were  the  star 
as  guided  to  our  Saviour's  home.  I  awmust  tliink 
it  be  the  very  star.' 

"  They  lifted  him  up ;  and  he  was  overjoyed  to  find 
that  they  were  about  to  take  him  in  the  direction 
whither  the  star  seemed  to  him  to  lead. 

"  '  Rachael,  beloved  lass,  don't  let  go  my  hand.  We 
may  walk  toogether  t'night,  my  dear.' 

"  'I  will  hold  thy  hand,  and  keep  beside  thee, 
Stephen,  all  the  way.' 

"  *  Bless  thee  !  Will  soombody  be  pleased  to  coover 
my  face  ?  ' 

"  They  carried  him  very  gently  along  the  fields,  and 
down  the  lanes,  and  over  the  wide  landscape  ;  Rachael 
always  holding  the  hand  in  hers.     Very  few  whispers 


326  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

broke  the  mournful  silence.  It  was  soon  a  funeral- 
procession.  The  star  had  shown  him  where  to  find  the 
God  of  the  poor;  and,  through  humility  and  sorrow 
and  forgiveness,  he  had  gone  to  his  Redeemer's  rest." 

Among  the  shorter  sketches  by  Dickens,  gathered  into 
one  volume  in  some  editions  of  his  works,  as  "  Addi- 
tional Christmas  Stories,"  was  one  wliich  the  writer 
of  this  memorial  volume  had  the  delight  of  hearing  him 
read  to  his  last  Boston  audience.  It  is  called  "  Dr. 
Marigold,"  and  is  a  mixture  of  humor  and  pathos. 
After  telling  of  the  deaf-and-dumb  girl  whom  he 
adopted,  and  of  her  refusal  to  go  away  with  her  lover, 
Dr.  Marigold  pleasantly  concludes  with  a  narration  of 
his  peculiar  manner  of  giving  consent  to  the  marriage  ; 
then  tells  how  lonely  he  was  Avithout  Sophy  ;  and  then, 
one  Christmas  Eve,  how  he  ate  his  lonely  dinner,  and 
sat  dreamily  by  his  fireside.     Then  he  says,  — 

"  Sophy's  books  so  brought  up  Sophy's  self,  that  I 
saw  her  touching  face  quite  plainly  before  I  dropped 
oif  dozing  by  the  fire.  This  may  be  a  reason  why 
Sophy,  with  her  deaf-and-dumb  child  in  her  arms, 
seemed  to  stand  silent  by  me  all  through  my  nap.  I  was 
on  the  road,  off  the  road,  in  all  sorts  of  places, —  north 
and  south  and  west  and  east ;  winds  liked  best,  and  winds 
liked  least ;  here  and  there,  and  gone  astray ;  over  the 
hills,  and  far  away, —  and  still  she  stood  silent  by  me,  with 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  327 

her  silent  child  in  her  arms.  Even  when  I  woke  with 
a  start,  she  seemed  to  vanish,  as  if  she  had  stood  by  me 
in  that  very  place  only  a  single  instant  before. 

"  I  had  started  at  a  real  sound  ;  and  the  sound  was  on 
the  steps  of  the  cart.  It  was  the  light,  hurried  tread  of 
a  child  coming  clambering  up.  That  tread  of  a  child 
had  once  been  so  familiar  to  me,  that,  for  half  a  moment, 
I  believed  I  was  going  to  see  a  little  ghost. 

"  But  the  touch  of  a  real  child  was  laid  upon  the 
outer  handle  of  the  door ;  and  the  handle  turned,  and 
the  door  opened  a  little  way,  and  a  real  child  peeped  in, 
—  a  bright  little  comely  girl  with  large  dark  eyes. 

"  Looking  full  at  me,  the  tiny  creature  took  off  her 
mite  of  a  straw  hat ;  and  a  quantity  of  dark  curls  fell  all 
about  her  face.  Then  she  opened  her  lips,  and  said  in 
a  pretty  voice,  — 

"  '  Grandfather !  ' 

"  '  Ah,  my  God ! '  I  cries  out.     '  She  can  speak  ! ' 

"  '  Yes,  dear  grandfather ;  and  I  am  to  ask  you 
whether  there  was  ever  any  one  that  I  remind  you  of.' 

"  In  a  moment,  Sophy  was  round  my  neck,  as  well  as 
the  child ;  and  her  husband  was  a-wringing  my  hand  with 
his  face  hid,  and  we  all  had  to  shake  ourselves  together 
before  we  could  get  over  it.  And  when  we  did  begin 
to  get  over  it,  and  I  saw  the  pretty  child  a-talking, 
pleased  and  quick  and  eager  and  busy,  to  her  mother  in 
the  signs  that  I  had  first  taught  her  mother,  the  happy 
and  yet  pitying  tears  fell  rolling  down  my  face." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


AS   AN   EDITOR. 


Household  "Words. —All  the  Tear  Round.  — Great  Expectations.  —  Tale  of  Two 

Cities. 

"  Nor  need  we  power  or  splendor, 
Wide  hall  or  lordly  dome : 
The  good,  the  true,  the  tender,  — 
These  form  the  wealth  of  home." 

Mrs.  Hale. 

"  Let  your  speech  be  always  with  grace."  —  COL.  iv.  6. 

EARTH  and  home  has  need  of  pleasant 
words,  and  words  of  wisdom.  These  Mr. 
Dickens  sought  to  give  in  the  periodicals 
of  which  he  was  editor.  In  1850,  he  took 
charge  of  a  weekly  literary  paper  called 
"  Household  Words ;"  and  it  became  exceedingly  popular. 
He  showed  that  he  was  "  abundantly  competent  to  super- 
intend a  periodical  with  regularity  and  efficiency ;  to 
write,  select,  and  edit  with  practical  and  workmanlike 
skill ;  and  to  select  judiciously,  and  conduct  with  kind- 
ness and  decision,  the  necessary  staff  of  subordinates." 
In  1857,  owing  to  a  disagreement  with  his  publishers, 
Mr.   Dickens  discontinued  "  Household   Words,"  and 

328 


CHAKLES    DICKENS.  329 

established  "  All  the  Year  Round  "  instead  ;  having  his 
old  publishers, — Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall.  His  eldest 
son  became  chief  assistant  on  this  periodical  shortly  be- 
fore his  death.  Mr.  Dickens  was,  in  some  sense,  his  own 
publisher.  Mr.  Smalley,  in  "  The  New-York  Tribune," 
thus  notices  the  fact :  — 

"  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall's  names  appear  on  the 
titlepages  of  his  books ;  but  they  have  been  only  Mr. 
Dickens's  agents.  He  owned  the  copyright  of  every 
one  of  his  novels.  In  early  days,  it  is  true,  before  his 
fame  had  increased,  and  before  the  property  in  any  one 
of  his  novels  had  become  a  fortune,  he  had  sold  his 
rights  as  author  in  a  considerable  number  of  his  books. 
All  these  he  repurchased ;  often  by  dint  of  great  trouble, 
and  by  difficult  negotiations,  always  at  a  price  far  beyond 
that  which  they  had  brought  in  the  beginning.  It  was 
not  only  a  matter  of  calculation  with  Mr.  Dickens,  it 
was  a  matter  of  pride.  His  books  are  his  children  :  he 
did  not  want  them  in  a  stranger's  hand,  nor  subject  to 
tlie  authority  of  anybody  but  their  author.  The  copy- 
rights were  much  dispersed;  and,  when  it  became 
known  that  ]\Ir.  Dickens  was  bent  on  buying  them  up, 
the  price,  which  was  already  high,  advanced  very 
considerably.  The  British  book-publisher  is  just  as 
capable  of  driving  a  hard  bargain  as  his  American  rival ; 
and  Mr.  Dickens  had  to  pay  dearly  for  his  discovery  of 
that  interesting  fact.     At  last  he  carried  his  point,  and 


330  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

held  in  liis  own  grasp,  by  a  good  legal  title,  all  his  earlier 
writings.  With  the  latter  he  had  never  parted  ;  with 
none,  I  suppose,  during  the  last  twenty  years.  Every 
six  months,  Messrs.  Chapman  &  HaU  handed  in  their 
accounts.  It  was  Mr.  Dickens  who  settled  the  terms  of 
publication,  the  form  in  which  each  successive  edition 
should  appear,  and  all  other  details.  What  is  called  the 
'  Charles  Dickens  Edition '  was  his  idea,  and  his  favorite, — 
not  on  account  of  its  beauty  or  readableness,  for  it  Ls  print- 
ed compactly,  in  small  type,  but  on  account  of  its  cheap- 
ness. What  pleased  him  was,  that  everybody  should  be 
able  to  buy  a  complete  set  of  his  writings  ;  and  so  he  had 
them  all  condensed  into,  I  think,  seventeen  volumes,  sepa- 
rately published,  and  sold  at  three  shillings  and  six- 
pence each.  He  understood  the  market,  studied  it,  and 
adapted  the  supply  of  his  books  to  the  demand.  He 
told  me,  four  years  ago,  that  the  copyright  of  each  one 
of  his  books  became  every  3-ear  more  valuable  ;  that  is, 
brought  in  more  actual  money." 

Of  Mr.  Dickens  as  an  editor,  "  The  London  Daily 
'Sews, "  says,  "  We  believe  we  are  correct  in  stating, 
that  every  article  in  '  Household  Words '  and  '  All  the 
Year  Round '  passed  under  the  conductor's  eye,  and 
that  every  proof  was  read  and  corrected  by  him.  It 
was  at  one  time  the  fashion  to  assume  that  '  conducted 
by  Charles  Dickens  '  meant  little  more  than  a  sleeping 
partnership,  —  as  if  Dickens  coiild  have  been  a  sleeping 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  331 

partner  in  any  undertaking  under  the  sun.  But  those 
behind  the  scenes  knew  better ;  and  the  readers  of  '  All 
the  Year  Round'  may  ass'ftre  themselves  that  every 
word  in  it  was,  up  to  this  date,  read  before  publication 
by  the  great  master  whose  name  it  bears.  At  this 
moment,  the  '  Particulars  for  next  number, '  in  the  neat 
yet  bold  handwriting  which  it  is  impossible  to  mistake 
hang  by  the  side  of  the  empty  oflSce-desk." 

"  His  editorial  position,"  Mr.  Perkins  says,  "  afforded 
him  many  opportunities  of  aiding  authors  of  all  kinds  ; 
and  very  gladly  and  generously  he  used  them.  The  rule 
of  contributing  anonymously  had  its  disagreeable  side  ; 
and  it  prevented  (for  instance)  Douglas  Jerrold  from 
writing  for  the  weekly.  '  But  the  periodical  is  anony- 
mous throughout,'  remonstrated  Dickens,  one  day,  when 
he  had  been  suggesting  to  Mr.  Jerrold  to  write  for  it. 
'  Yes,'  replied  the  caustic  wit,  opening  a  number,  and 
reading  the  title,  '  "  Conducted  by  Charles  Dickens."  I 
see  it  is  —  wjowonymous  throughout.'  There  was  some 
reason  for  this ;  for  JerrokVs  name  was  worth  money. 
...  To  3'oung  writers,  the  great  novelist  was  acces- 
sible, and  as  kind  as  his  exacting  employments  rendered 
it  possible  for  him  to  be  ;  and  very  many  are  the  papers 
to  which  he  gave  many  a  grace  by  the  judicious  touches 
of  his  magical  pen." 

Mr.  Dickens  wrote  a  "  Child's  History  of  England," 
which  is  a  well-prepared  compendium  for  the  young  stu- 


332  LIFE  AND  WEITINGS  OF 

dent,  and  may  be  read  with  advantage  by  older  persons. 
The  miscellaneous  sketches  prepared  for  these  papers 
were  published  together  by  the  name  of  "  The  Un- 
commercial Traveller,"  and  met  with  a  warm  recep- 
tion. 

"  Great  Expectations,"  and  "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities," 
also  appeared  first  as  serials  ;  and  the  latter  is  counted 
the  most  intellectual  of  any  of  the  works  of  Dickens. 
From  the  "  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  there  is  only  space 
here  to  present  a  slight  sketch,  which  conveys  a 
sweet  and  holy  picture  of  childliood,  and  refutes  the 
idea  that  Mr.  Dickens  thought  u-reverently  of  the  Sa- 
vioui'  :  — 

"  A  wonderful  corner  for  echoes,  it  has  been  remarked, 
—  that  corner  where  the  doctor  lived.  Ever  busily  wind- 
ing the  golden  thread  which  bound  her  husband  and 
her  father  and  herself,  and  her  old  directress  and  com- 
panion, in  a  life  of  quiet  bliss,  Lucie  sat  in  the  still 
house,  in  the  tranquilly  resounding  corner,  listening  to 
the  echoing  footsteps  of  years. 

"  At  first  there  were  times,  though  she  was  a  perfect- 
ly happy  young  wife,  when  her  work  would  slowly  fall 
from  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  would  be  dimmed ;  for 
there  was  something  coming  in  the  echoes,  something 
light,  afar  off,  and  scarcely  audible  yet,  that  stirred  her 
heart  too  much.  Fluttering  hopes  and  doubts  —  hopes 
of  a  love  as  yet  unknown  to  her,  doubts  of  her  remain- 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  333 

ing  upon  earth  to  enjoy  that  new  delight  —  divided  her 
breast.  Among  the  echoes,  then,  there  woukl  arise  the 
sound  of  footsteps  at  her  own  early  grave  ;  and  thou<T^hts 
of  the  husband  who  would  be  left  so  desolate,  and  wlio 
would  mourn  for  her  so  much,  swelled  to  her  eyes,  and 
broke  like  waves. 

"  That  time  i^assed  ;  and  her  little  Lucie  lay  on  her  bo- 
som. Then,  among  the  advancing  echoes,  there  was  the 
tread  of  her  tiny  feet  and  the  sound  of  her  prattling 
words.  Let  greater  echoes  resound  as  they  would,  the 
young  mother  at  the  cradle-side  could  always  hear  those 
coming.  They  came,  and  the  shady  house  was  sunny 
with  a  child's  laugh ;  and  the  divine  Friend  of  children, 
to  whom,  in  her  trouble,  she  had  confided  hers,  seemed  to 
take  her  child  in  his  arms  as  he  took  the  child  of  old, 
and  made  it  a  sacred  joy  to  her. 

"  Ever  busily  winding  the  golden  thread  that  bound 
them  all  together,  weaving  the  service  of  her  happy  in- 
fluence through  the  tissue  of  all  their  lives,  and  making 
it  predominate  nowhere,  Lucie  heard  in  the  echoes  of 
years  none  but  friendly  and  soothing  sounds.  Her  hus- 
band's step  was  strong  and  prosperous  among  them  ;  her 
father's  firm  and  equal.  Lo,  Miss  Pross,  in  harness  of 
string,  awakening  the  echoes,  as  an  unruly  charger, 
whip-corrected,  snorting,  and  pawing  the  earth  under 
the  plane-tree  in  the  garden  ! 

"  Even  when  there  were  sounds  of  sorrow  among  the 
rest,  they  were  not  harsh  nor  cruel.     Even  when  golden 


334  LIFE  AND   WEITINGS. 

liaii',  like  her  own,  lay  in  a  halo  on  a  pillow  round  the 
worn  face  of  a  little  boy,  and  he  said  with  a  radiant 
smile, '  Dear  papa  and  mamma,  I  am  very  sorry  to  leave  you 
both,  and  to  leave  my  pretty  sister ;  but  I  am  called, 
and  I  must  go  ! '  —  those  were  not  tears  all  of  agony  that 
wetted  his  young  mother's  cheek  as  the  spirit  departed 
from  her  embrace  that  had  been  intrusted  to  it.  Suffer 
them,  and  forbid  them  not.  They'see  my  Father's  face. 
O  Father,  blessed  words  ! 

"  Thus  the  rustling  of  an  angel's  wings  got  blended 
with  the  other  echoes  ;  and  they  were  not  wholly  of 
earth,  but  had  in  them  that  breath  of  heaven.  Sighs  of 
the  winds  that  blew  over  a  little  garden-tomb  were 
mingled  with  them  also  ;  and  both  were  audible  to  Lucie 
in  a  hushed  murmur,  —  like  the  breathing  of  a  summer 
sea  asleep  upon  a  sandy  shore,  —  as  the  little  Lucie,  com- 
ic§.lly  studious  at  the  task  of  the  morning,  or  dressing  a 
doll  at  her  mother's  footstool,  chattered  in  the  tongues 
of  the  two  cities  that  were  blended  in  her  life." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AMERICAN    POPULARITY. 
The  Diamond  Edition.  — Portraits  of  Mr.  Dickens.  —  Our  Mutual  Friend. 

"  Give  me  tlie  boon  of  love : 
Renown  is  but  a  breath, 
Whose  loudest  echo  ever  floats 
From  out  the  halls  of  death." 

H.  T.  Thckerman. 

"  A  good  name  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  great  riches,  and  loving  favor  rather 
than  silver  or  gold."  — Prov.  xxii.  1. 

N  America,  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Dickens 
is  now  as  great,  probably,  as  in  his  own 
countr3^  The  picture-stores  present  his 
portrait  in  an  endless  variety  of  forms,  — 
standing,  sitting,  writing.  Magazines  and 
weekly  literary  periodicals  are  illustrated  with  pictures  of 
him  and  of  his  place  of  residence.  The  rich  and  the  poor 
respect  his  memory  ;  for  hearts  everywhere  in  our  broad 
land  have  been  cheered  and  blessed  by  the  writings  of 
Charles  Dickens.  Even  the  prisoner  in  his  cell  has  been 
blessed  with  the  memory  of  his  sweet,  ennobling  words. 
At  the  State  Prison  in  Massachusetts,  the  convicts  once 

335 


336  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS  OP 

were  allowed  a  Christmas  festival,  wlien  tlie  warden,* 
read  to  them  in  the  chapel  from  Dickens's  "  Christmas 
Carol." 

James  T.  Fields,  his  Boston  publisher,  bears  testimony 
of  Mr.  Dickens,  which  would  lead  one  to  suppose  this 
reading  of  his  "  Carol  "  to  prisoners  would  especially 
delight  his  benevolent  heart ;  for  as  Mr.  Fields  testi- 
fies :  — 

"  When  he  came  into  the  presence  of  squalid  or  de- 
graded persons,  such  as  one  sometimes  encounters  in 
almshouses  or  prisons,  he  had  such  soothing  words  to 
scatter  here  and  there,  that  those  who  had  been  '  most 
hurt  by  the  archers'  listened  gladly,  and  loved  him  with- 
out knowing  who  it  was  that  found  it  in  his  heart  to 
speak  so  kindly  to  them." 

Various  editions  of  the  works  of  Dickens  have  been 
published  in  this  country,  of  which  the  diamond  edi- 
tion is  perhaps  the  most  popular.  The  books  are 
small  enough  to  take  with  one  on  a  journey,  and  well 
illustrated ;  while  the  type,  though  small,  is  clear,  and 
easily  read.  "  Of  the  many  portraits  of  Charles  Dick- 
ens, that  which  has  the  approval  of  Dickens  himself 
is  by  Eytinge,  the  illustrator  of  the  diamond  edi- 
tion, and  published  by  Ticknor  &  Fields.     The   por- 

*  Hon.  Gideon  HajTies,  author  of  Prison-Life. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  337 

trait  is  as  near  faultless  as  art  can  make  one.  As  the 
picture  represents  liim,  lie  is  at  his  desk,  pen  in  hand, 
the  head  turned  a  little  one  side,  wonderfully  expres- 
sive of  the  state  of  mind  when  considering  '  how  to  do 
it.'" 

The  first  volume  given  to  readers  in  that  elegant  little 
diamond  edition,  was  "  Our  Mutual  Friend."  This  con- 
tains many  fine  passages,  exquisite  in  expression,  and  of 
lofty  sentiment.  One  of  those  sentences  which  shines 
like  a  diamond  among  pebbles  is  this :  "  Evil  often 
stops  short  at  itself,  and  dies  with  the  doer  of  it ;  but 
good,  never."  When  one  reads  the  inimitable  stories 
of  Dickens  with  an  unprejudiced  mind  and  liberal  heart, 
one  must  adopt  the  language  of  Thackeray,  and  say,  — 

"  I  may  quarrel  with  Mr.  Dickens's  art  a  thousand 
times  ;  I  delight  and  wonder  at  his  genius  ;  I  recognize 
in  it  —  I  speak  with  awe  and  reverence  —  a  commis- 
sion from  that  divine  Beneficence  whose  blessed  task 
w.e  know  it  will  one  da}^  be  to  wipe  every  tear  from 
every  eye. 

"  Thankfully  I  take  my  share  of  the  feast  of  love  and 
kindness  wliich  this  gentle  and  generous  and  charitable 
soul  has  contributed  to  the  happiness  of  the  world.  1 
take  and  enjoy  my  share,  and  say  a  benediction  for  the 
meal." 

In  order  to  pass  rapidly  on  to  a  mention  of  Mr.  Dick- 

22 


338  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

ens  as  a  reader,  only  a  brief  extract  from  ''  Our  jMutual 
Friend  "  is  here  inserted.     It  is  the  close  of  the  chapter 
speaking  of  little  Johnny's  death  at  the  children's  hos 
pital :  — 

"  The  family  whom  God  had  brought  together  were 
not  all  asleep,  but  were  all  quiet.  From  bed  to  bed,  a 
light  womanly  tread,  and  a  pleasant  fresh  face,  passed  in 
the  silence  of  the  night.  A  little  head  would  lift  itself 
up  into  the  softened  light  here  and  there,  to  be  kissed 
as  the  face  went  by, — for  these  little  patients  are  very 
loving,  —  and  would  then  submit  itself  to  be  composed 
to  rest  again.  The  mite  with  the  broken  leg  was  rest- 
less, and  moaned,  but,  after  a  while,  turned  his  face 
towards  Johnny's  bed  to  fortif}^  himself  with  a  view  of 
the  ark,  and  fell  asleep.  Over  most  of  the  beds,  the 
toys  were  yet  grouped  as  the  children  had  left  them 
when  they  last  laid  themselves  down ;  and,  in  their  inno- 
cent grotesqueness  and  incongruit}^  they  might  have 
stood  for  the  children's  dreams. 

"  The  doctor  came  in,  too,  to  see  how  it  fared  with 
Johnny.  And  he  and  Rokesmith  stood  together,  look- 
ing down  with  compassion  upon  him. 

"  '  What  is  it,  Johnny  ? '  Rokesmith  was  the  ques- 
tioner, and  put  an  arm  round  the  poor  baby  as  he  made 
a  struggle. 

"  '  Ilim  ! '  said  the  little  fellow.     '  Those  ! ' 

"  The  doctor  was  quick  to  understand  children,  and 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  339 

taking  the  horse,  the  ark,  the  yellow-bird,  and  the  man 
in  the  guards,  from  Johnny's  bed,  softly  placed  them 
on  that  of  his  next  neighbor,  —  the  mite  with  the  bro- 
ken leg. 

"  With  a  weary  and  yet  a  pleased  smile,  and  with  an 
action  as  if  he  stretched  his  little  finger  out  to  rest,  the 
child  heaved  his  body  on  the  sustaining  arm,  and,  seek- 
ing Rokesmith's  face  with  his  hps,  said,  — 

"  '  A  Idss  for  the  boofer  lady.' 

"  Having  now  bequeathed  all  he  had  to  dispose  of, 
and  arranged  his  affairs  in  this  world,  Johnny,  thus 
speaking,  left  it." 


CHAPTER    XV. 

SECOND    \T:SIT    to    AMERICA. 

Dickens  as  a  Reader  and  Actor. —His  First  Appearance  in  Boston. — His  Last 
Reading  in  Boston. 

"  Land  of  the  forest  .and  the  rook, 

Of  dark  blue  lake  and  mighty  river, 
Of  mountains  roared  on  liigh  to  mock 
The  storm's  career  and  lightning's  shock, 
*    My  own  green  land  forever  1 " 

■Whittier. 

"  And  he  took  the  hook  .  .  .  and  read  in  the  audience  of  the  people."  —  ExOD, 
xxiv.  7. 

j|N  December,  1867,  IMr.  Dickens  made  liis 
second  visit  to  America.  His  fault  in 
writing  the  "  Notes "  had  been  forgiven, 
since  the  common  sense  and  Cliristian  sen- 
timent of  the  people  acknowledged  him  to 
be  right  in  most,  if  not  all,  his  criticisms ;  and  when  he 
came  as  a  reader  he  was  warmly  welcomed.  The  news- 
paper accounts  of  his  appearance  and  readings  will  give 
the  best  idea  of  them.  Of  his  first  reading,  "  The  Bos- 
ton Journal "  says,  — 

"  Tremont  Temple  was  completely  filled ;  every  seat, 

340 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  3il 

and  nearly  every  standing-place,  front  of  tlie  platform, 
except  the  central  aisles,  having  an  occupant.  The 
wealth,  beauty,  fashion,  and  intellect  of  the  city,  were 
present  in  great  numbers.  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Lowell, 
Quincy,  and  a  host  of  others  of  our  most  eminent  citi- 
zens, attended  to  greet  the  inimitable  '  Boz '  in  his  new 
cliaracter  of  reader  of  liis  own  works.  The  audience 
began  to  assemble  as  early  as  seven  o'clock ;  but  not  all 
were  seated  by  eight  o'clock:  when  this  was  accom- 
plished, the  hall  presented  a  magnificent  appearance, 
there  were  so  many  splendidly-dressed  ladies  present. 

"  The  arrangements  for  the  reading  were  somewhat 
peculiar.  On  the  rear  of  the  platform  was  a  maroon- 
colored  screen  about  fifteen  feet  long  by  seven  high,  and 
a  carpet  of  the  same  color  spread  in  front.  Along  the 
front  of  the  platform  was  a  high  framework  of  gas-pipe, 
with  burners  upon  the  inner  side,  and  a  narrow  screen 
to  cast  the  light  upon  the  distinguished  reader.  In  the 
centre  of  the  platform  stood  a  little  crimson-colored 
stand,  festooned  with  a  bright  fringe,  with  a  tiny  desk, 
which  an  open  book  more  than  covered,  on  one  corner. 
Upon  one  side  was  a  shelf,  on  which  stood  a  glass  de- 
canter of  water  and  a  tumbler. 

"  This  purple-hued  paraphernalia  interested  the  curi- 
ous and  expectant  audience  till  three  minutes  past  eight 
o'clock  ;  when  a  shght  clapping  of  hands,  like  the  first 
drops  of  a  shower,  announced  the  coming  of  '  Boz '  from 
the  ante-room.  With  an  elastic  step  he  ascended  the  plat- 


342  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

form,  and  moved  quickly  to  his  crimson  throne ;  the  ap- 
plause, meanwhile,  spreading  and  deepening  till  the 
whole  audience  joined  in  one  universal  and  enthusiastic 
plaudit,  which  continued  for  several  minutes.  It  was  as 
cordial  a  welcome  as  heart  could  wish ;  and,  had  Mr. 
Dickens  been  doubtful  about  his  reception,  every  appre- 
hension must  have  vanished  as  the  swelling  tide  of 
friendly  greeting  poured  its  music  upon  his  ear.  Al- 
though time  has  laid  a  frosting  upon  his  well-kept  and 
trimly-shaped  beard,  and  thinned  the  locks  that  cover 
his  head,  Mr.  Dickens  has  still  the  air  and  port  of  a 
young  man,  —  his  step  firm  and  free,  his  bearing  erect 
and  assured,  and  his  dress  the  pink  of  propriety,  though 
pervaded  by  a  touch  of  dandyism.  Dressed  in  a  suit  of 
faultless  black,  with  two  small  flowers  —  one  white,  the 
other  red — deftly  attached  to  his  left  lappel,  a  profusion 
of  gold  chains  festooned  across  his  vest,  his  long  goatee 
spreading  like  a  fan  beneath  his  chin,  his  ear-locks 
standing  almost  straight  from  his  head,  and  wdth  a 
countenance  still  fresh,  though  no  longer  youthful, 
Charles  Dickens  stood,  with  book  in  hand,  before  his 
audience,  and  gracefully  acknowledged  the  hearty  greet- 
ings bestowed  upon  him.  Those  who  saw  him  for  the 
first  time  last  night  hardly  realized,  we  think,  their 
ideal  of  this  gifted  author.  His  countenance  has  not 
that  soft,  refined,  pre-eminently  intellectual  look  which 
one  who  so  deeply  stirs  the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature 
would  naturally  be  thought  to  present.     The  mark  of 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  343 

genius  is  not  so  obvious,  at  least  by  gas-liglit,  as  an  ad- 
mirer would  expect.  A  dashy,  good-natured,  shrewd 
English  face  it  is,  —  one  that  would  be  associated  with 
the  out-door  life  of  a  smart  man  of  business  not  particu- 
larly troubled  with  fine  sentiments,  and  not  unmindful 
of  good  cheer ;  brusque,  not  beautiful,  wide  awake,  and 
honest." 

A  lady  writer  in  "  The  Chicago  Advance "  thus 
graphically  speaks  of  Dickens  at  Boston :  — 

"  On  Tuesday  evening,  I  climbed,  for  the  sake  of  Da- 
vid Copperfield,  and  Mr.  Bob  Sawj^er's  party,  the  end- 
less stairs  of  the  Tremont  Temple.  The  kindly  fates 
had  wafted  my  ticket  to  the  floor  of  the  house,  and  to 
the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  so  near  the  platform,  ex- 
actly as  one  would  wish  to  be :  so  I  had  but  to  open  my 
eyes,  and  I  saw ;  and  my  ears,  and  I  heard.  It  is  said 
Mr.  Dickens's  voice  by  no  means  fills  the  hall :  the  back 
galleries  lost  a  large  proportion  of  his  words,  and  were 
obliged  to  follow  the  libretto  closely,  to  understand 
him. 

"  The  arrangements  on  the  platform  are  fresh.  A 
large  screen,  of  a  rich  maroon-color,  stands  as  a  back- 
ground for  the  reader.  In  front  of  it  is  a  dainty  little 
crimson-velvet  desk,  with  a  tumbler,  and  decanter  of 
water.  Mr.  Dickens  desires  that  every  one  be  in  his 
seat,  and  the  house  still,  at  ten  minutes  before  eight.    A 


34-t  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

fair  approach  towards  meeting  the  request  is  made.  At 
eight  precisely,  the  hush  deepens.  There  is  a  stir,  and  a 
gush  of  apphiuse,  and  we  have  an  idea  of  a  tall  gentle- 
man walking  very  fast  across  the  stage ;  and,  before  we 
have  a  moment  to  find  out  what  manner  of  man  he  is, 
he  has  made  his  Low,  and  is  already  telling  us  in  a 
quick  voice,  with  the  rising  inflection  at  his  commas, 
about  those  contrivances  on  Mr.  Peggotty's  table  which 
kept  the  Bible  from  tumbling  down ;  and  how  the  Bible, 
if  it  had  tumbled  down,  would  have  broken  the  tea- 
cups. For  an  instant,  the  effect  is  rather  funny ;  and 
one  can  think  onl}^  that  he  is  determined  to  be  on  time, 
and  let  us  out  at  ten  o'clock,  according  to  agreement. 

"  Then  we  begin  to  look  at  him,  —  a  florid-faced,  keen- 
looking  Englishman,  with  a  bald  forehead,  —  not  a  re- 
markable forehead,  indeed.  At  first  sight,  there  seems 
to  be  nothing  remarkable  about  him.  Two  funny  little 
tufts  of  hair  over  each  ear,  and  a  gray  goatee  and  mus- 
tache ;  dress-coat ;  immaculate  large  shirt-front ;  a  suffi- 
cient display  of  studs,  and  watch-chain,  and  diamond 
rings  ;  white  tie  ;  white  kids,  m,  not  on,  his  hand ;  rose- 
buds, red  and  white,  in  his  buttonhole  ;  and  red  ribbons 
on  the  little  red-bevelled  '  Condensed  Copperfield,'  which 
lies  upon  the  desk,  scarcely  referred  to  throughout  the 
evening.  At  the  first  glance,  I  think  quite  as  much  of 
rosebuds  and  ribbon  and  watch-guard  as  of  the  man's 
face.  In  three  minutes,  he  might  be  all  rosebuds,  and  I 
should  see  only  the  face. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  345 

"  The  trouble  with  Mr.  Dickens's  books  is,  that  it  is 
next  to  impossible  to  accomplish  such  a  thing  as  a  selec- 
tion from  them.  It  is  like  a  choice  of  pearls  and  opals. 
Here  in  '  David  Copperfield,'  we  must  have  Steerforth 
and  Little  Em"ly,  Ham,  Mr.  Peggotty,  Dora,  and  Mr. 
Micawber;  and  where  are  Peggotty  and  Barkis  and 
Aunt  Trotwood  and  Uriah  Heep  ?  and  how  in  the  world 
are  we  ever  going  to  spare  Agnes,  with  her  little  ke3^s 
and  her  quiet  eyes  ?  and  how  could  any  other  scene  be 
chosen  before  that  of  the  night  when  Dora  and  the  lit- 
tle spaniel  die  ?  But  of  course,  in  two  hours,  he  cannot 
suit  everybody ;  and  we  must  beheve  that  Mr.  Dickens 
made  the  selections  best  adapted  to  dramatic  purposes, 
and  be  content. 

"It  is  not  his  voice,  but  his  acting,  which  is  the  won- 
der about  i\Ir.  Dickens.  His  voice  is  not  what  a  public 
speaker's  voice  should  be :  it  has  no  ring  to  it,  and,  as  I 
said,  cannot  fill  a  large  hall.  But  it  is  a  fact  scarcely 
disputed,  that  there  is  no  living  actor  to  be  found  his 
equal.  What  is  art,  and  what  is/t'?f  to  be  art,  upon  the 
stage,  is  nature  in  him.  He  invests  liimself  completely 
with  each  of  his  characters  in  turn.  They  are  the  chil- 
dren of  his  brain,  a  part  of  himself,  dear  to  him.  He 
knows  them  through :  he  has  wept  with  them,  laughed 
with  them,  suffered  with  them,  joyed  with  them,  borne 
their  temptations,  moulded  their  fortunes,  lived  their 
lives.  They  may  be  fireside  friends  to  his  audience: 
they  are  more  than  that  to  him. 


346  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  He  is  Steerforth,  the  gentleman,  the  villain,  at  his 
best,  at  his  worst ;  he  is  simple-minded,  true-hearted 
Ham,  —  poor  Ham!  —  saying  in  his  awkward,  honest 
way,  '  There's  not  a  gentleman  in  all  the  land  could 
love  his  lady  truer  than  I  love  her,  sir.'  He  is  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  lisping  out,  that  '  every  think  goes  con- 
trairy  with  her.'  Shut  your  eyes,  and  you  would  assert 
that  it  was  an  old  Avoman  without  teeth  or  hoops,  chat- 
tering up  there  behind  the  crimson  desk.  He  is  dainty 
Dora,  drawmg  a  pencil-mark  down  her  husband's  nose, 
and  declaring  in  a  little  petulant  sob,  that  she  '  didn't 
marry  to  be  reasoned  with,  and  he  is  a  cruel,  cruel  boy ! ' 
He  is  Mr.  Sawyer,  and  Mr.  Sawyer's  landlady,  and  Mrs. 
Sawyer's  stupid  servant,  as  flawlessly  as  he  is  Mr.  Peg- 
go  tty,  searching  the  world  over  for  his  lost  Em'ly,  and 
rubbing  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes  as  he  tells  the  story. 

"  It  is  noticeable,  that,  whatever  few  mistakes  of  tone 
or  gesture  he  ma}'  make,  his  face  is  invariably  true.  His 
face  is  a  marvel.  His  audience  sit  as  one  man,  with  their 
eyes  upon  it.  It  unfolds,  like  a  panorama,  soul  upon 
soul,  life  upon  life,  crisis  upon  crisis.  It  scarcely  misin- 
terprets a  pain,  and  always  fanly  bubbles  over  with  a 
joke.  It  is  a  face  at  prayer  one  instant ;  it  lights  lu- 
ridly with  his  wicked  smile  —  his  very  wicked  smile  — 
the  next.  It  is  oftener  said  of  him,  perhaps,  than  of 
any  other  living  man,  '  He  is  a  master.'  The  common 
words   come  up  in  threefold  force  as  we  watch   and 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  347 

listen.     A  master  he  certainly  is ;    and  the  world   has 
not  many. 

"  He  has  laid  Steerforth  solemnly  dead  npon  the 
beach,  taken  his  five-minutes'  recess,  come  back  with 
the  rosebuds  superseded  by  a  large  red  carnation,  engi- 
neered poor  Mr.  Sawyer  satisfactorily  through  his  party, 
and  punctually  at  ten  o'clock  vanished  —  he  and  the 
two  breathless,  bright  hours  —  like  a  beautiful  dream 
from  before  us." 

Of  his  last  reading  in  Boston,  "  The  Boston  Tran- 
script "  thus  speaks  ;  and  the  account  is  inserted  here 
with  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  pleasure  with  which 
that  evening  was  spent ;  — 

"  The  Final  Reading.  —  When  Mr.  Dickens  came 
upon  the  stage  last  evening,  to  be  greeted  by  a  house  as 
packed  and  as  appreciative  as  that  which  welcomed  his 
first  appearance  in  this  city,  he  found  his  table  covered 
with  floral  offerings,  rare  and  beautiful  as  they  were 
abundant.  He  characteristically  acknowledged  this 
compliment  by  saying,  — 

"  '  Before  allowing  Dr.  Marigold  to  tell  his  story 
in  his  own  peculiar  way,  I  kiss  the  kind,  fair  hands,  un- 
known, which  have  so  beautifully  decorated  my  table 
this  evening.' 

"  The  performance  that  followed  was,  or  many  fan- 
cied it  was,  given  with  more  feeling,  especially  in  the 


348  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OB' 

pathetic  portions,  than  on  previous  occasions.  Be  this, 
as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  Cheap  Jack,  quaint,  kindly, 
and  tender,  even  in  a  sleeve-waistcoat,  will  ever  be  a 
reality  now  to  those  who  have  heard  his  autobiography 
from  his  own  lips  ;  and  Mrs.  Gamp  will  remain  here,  for 
a  generation  at  least,  as  any  thing  but  a  model  monthly- 
nurse. 

"  The  prolonged  and  enthusiastic  applause  at  the 
close  of  the  reading  compelled  Mr.  Dickens,  as  he  Avas 
retiring,  to  turn  and  come  back,  and  make  this  graceful 
and  feeling  speech:  — 

"  '  Ladles  and  Crentlemen^  —  My  gracious  and  generous 
welcome  in  America,  which  can  never  be  obliterated 
from  my  remembrance,  began  here.  My  departure  be- 
gins here  too ;  for  I  assure  you  that  I  have  never  until 
this  moment  really  felt  that  I  am  going  away.  In  tliis 
brief  life  of  ours,  it  is  sad  to  do  almost  any  thing  for  the 
last  time  ;  and  I  cannot  conceal  from  you,  although  my 
face  will  so  soon  be  turned  towards  my  native  land,  and 
to  all  that  makes  it  dear,  that  it  is  a  sad  consideration 
with  me,  that,  in  a  very  few  moments  from  this  time, 
this  brilliant  hall  and  all  that  it  contains  will  fade  from 
my  view  forevermore.  But  it  is  my  consolation,  that 
the  spirit  of  the  bright  faces,  the  quick  perception,  the 
ready  response,  the  generous  and  the  cheering  sounds, 
that  have  made  this  place  delightful  to  me,  will  remain ; 
and  you  may  rel}'  upon  it,  that  that  spirit  will  abide  with 
me  as  Ioug:  as  I  have  sense  and  sentiment  left. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  349 

" '  I  do  not  say  this  with  any  limited  reference  to 
private  friendships  that  have  for  years  upon  ^^ears  made 
Boston  a  memorable  and  beloved  spot  to  me  ;  for  such 
private  references  have  no  business  in  this  public  place. 
I  say  it  purely  in  remembrance  of  and  in  homage  to 
the  great  public  heart  before  me. 

"  '  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  beg  most  earnestly,  most 
gratefully,  and  most  affectionately,  to  bid  you  each  and 
all  farewell.' 

"With  heartiest  rounds  of  applause,  mingled  with 
cheers,  and  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  the  great  assembly 
bade  adieu  to  Mr.  Dickens,  and  gave  expression  to  their 
thanks  for  the  rich  enjoyment  he  had  afforded  them. 
Thus  ended  a  series  of  entertainments,  of  which  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  the  expectations  raised  before  they 
began  have  not  been  disappointed.  The  readings 
have  proved  to  be  all  that  was  claimed  for  them ;  and 
for  their  peculiar  characteristics, —  elaborateness,  truth- 
fulness, and  finish,  as  impersonations,  —  they  have  stood 
the  test  of  criticism,  and  been  occasions  of  delight  to 
thousands. 

"  Mr.  Dickens  came  to  this  country  as  an  artist,  and 
in  a  professional  capacity,  to  present  himself  to  the 
pubHc  as  the  reciter  of  his  own  stories.  He  has  labored 
assiduously  in  his  vocation  ;  and  his  visit  has  proved  an 
entire  success.  His  interpretations  of  his  writings  will 
increase  their  already  wonderful  and  deserved  popu- 
larity, win  to  them  multitudes  of  readers  to  be  delighted 


360  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

with  their  wit,  characterizations,  and  pictures  of  life 
among  the  lowly.  Meanwhile,  on  account  of  the  hu- 
manity in  his  works,  their  appeals  to  every  home  and 
every  heart,  the  man  as  well  as  the  author  will  continue 
to  be  the  object  of  warm  regard,  as  one  whose  genius 
has  been  consecrated  to  the  service  of  generous,  liberal, 
and  unostentatious  philanthropy.  He  Avill  not  only  be 
cherished  as  an  unequalled  humorist  and  a  popular 
novelist,  but  he  will  also  be  held  in  honor  as  a  genial 
reformer,  and  the  advocate  of  the  largest  and  truest 
fraternal  charity." 

The  Dickens  excitement  was  as  strong  in  Philadel- 
phia as  it  was  elsewhere.  The  speculators  mustered  in 
force  at  eleven  o'clock,  p.m.,  to  secure  the  tickets  which 
were  offered  at  nine  the  next  morning. 

Before  leaving  America,  Mr.  Dickens  was  entertained 
at  a  handsome  banquet  at  Delmonico's,  New  York,  on 
the  evening  of  April  18,  1868  ;  and,  in  responding  to  an 
eloquent  speech  from  Mr.  Greeley,  the  distinguished 
guest  bore  strong  and  honest  testimony  to  the  change 
which  twenty-five  years  had  wrought  in  his  estimate  of 
America.     He  said,  — 

"  This  is  the  confidence  I  seek  to  place  in  you,  that 
on  my  return  to  England,  in  my  own  English  journal, 
manfully,  promptly,  plainly,  in  my  own  person  to  bear, 
for  the  behoof  of  my  countrymen,  such  testimony  to 


1 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  351 

the  gigantic  changes  in  this  country  as  I  have  hinted  at 
to-night.  Also  to  recall,  that  wherever  I  have  been,  in 
the  smallest  places  equally  with  the  largest,  I  have  been 
received  with  unsurpassable  politeness,  delicacy,  sweet 
temper,  hospitality,  consideration,  with  unsurpassable 
respect  for  the  privacy  daily  enforced  upon  me  by  the 
nature  of  my  avocation  here,  and  the  state  of  my  health. 
"  This  testimony,  so  long  as  I  live,  and  so  long  as  my 
descendants  have  any  legal  right  in  my  books,  I  shall 
cause  to  be  republished  as  an  appendix  to  every  copy 
of  those  two  books  of  mine  in  which  I  have  referred  to 
America.  And  this  I  will  do,  and  cause  to  be  done,  not 
in  my  loving-thankfulness,  but  because  I  regard  it  as  an 
act  of  plain  justice  and  honor." 

Taking  leave  of  his  last  American  audience,  in  New 
York,  April  20,  1868,  Mr.  Dickens  closed  his  reading 
with  this  touching  speech:  — 

"  Ladies  and  Grentletnen,  —  The  shadow  of  one  word 
has  impended  over  me  all  the  evening  ;  and  the  time  has 
come  at  last  when  that  shadow  must  fall.  It  is  but  a 
very  short  one ;  but  the  weight  of  such  things  is  not 
measured  by  their  length :  and  two  much  shorter  words 
express  the  whole  realm  of  our  human  existence.  When 
I  was  reading  '  David  Copperfield '  here  last  Thursday 
night,  I  felt  that  there  was  more  than  usual  significance 
for  me  in  Mr.  Peggotty's  declamation,  '  My  future  life 


352  LIFE    AND   WRITINGS. 

lies  over  the  sea.'  And,  when  I  closed  this  book  just 
now,  I  felt  keenly  that  I  was  shortly  to  establish  such 
an  alibi  as  would  even  have  satisfied  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller  himself.  The  relations  that  have  been  set  up 
between  us  here  —  relations  sustained  on  my  side,  at 
least,  by  the  most  earnest  devotion  of  myself  to  my 
task;  sustained  by  yourselves,  on  your  side,  by  the 
readiest  sympathy  and  kindliest  acknowledgment  — 
must  now  be  broken  forever.  But  I  entreat  you  to  be- 
lieve, that,  in  passing  from  my  sight,  you  will  not  pass 
from  my  memory.  I  shall  often,  often  recall  you  as  I 
see  you  now,  equally  by  my  winter  fire,  and  in  the 
green  English  summer  weather.  I  shall  never  recall 
you  as  a  mere  public  audience,  but  rather  as  a  host  of 
personal  friends,  and  ever  with  the  greatest  gratitude, 
tenderness,  and  consideration.  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
I  beg  to  bid  you  farewell.  And  I  pray  God  bless  you, 
and  God  bless  the  land  in  which  I  have  met  you !  " 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


DICKENS    AT    HOME. 


His  Domestic  Relations.  —  Gad's  Hill.  —  Shakspeare's  Mention  of  it. 


'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces,  where'er  we  may  roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home : 

A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home  I 

There's  no  place  like  home,  oh  1  there's  no  place  like  home." 

John  Howard  Payne. 

"  God  setteth  the  soUtary  in  families."  — Ps.  Isviii.  6. 

N  this  side  the  water,  at  such  a  dis- 
tance from  the  home  of  Dickens,  and  with 
so  little  real  knowledge  of  the  circum- 
stances relating  to  his  domestic  relations, 
it  becomes  all  to  judge  charitably  of  both 
parties,  where  there  is  any  disagreement,  and,  as  a 
general  rule,  to  let  such  matters  alone.  Quarrels  are 
always  to  be  deprecated ;  but  there  may  be  extenuating 
circumstances  on  both  sides.  "  The  New-York  Evening 
Post "  thus  refers  to  the  domestic  relations  of  the  great 
novehst : — 

23  353 


-^li 

1 

1 

m 

P 

m 

354  LIFE    AND    WRITINGS    OF 

"  Mr.  Dickens's  private  life  was  singularly  unobtru- 
sive, and  withdrawn  from  tire  public  eye.  Years  ago,  his 
domestic  troubles  made  his  family  circle  painfully  con- 
spicuous before  the  British  people ;  and  censure  was  freely 
bestowed  upon  one  or  the  other  party  to  the  deplorable 
conjugal  quarrel  by  the  intimate  friends  of  either.  But 
Dickens  lived  down  the  scandal ;  and  it  is  a  sufficient 
refutation  of  it,  perhaps,  that  his  children  have  always 
manifested  for  him  the  tenderest  affection.  One  of 
these,  a  son,  has  grown  to  man's  estate,  and  is  an  hon- 
ored member  of  society.  Another  is  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Charles  Collins,  author  of  '  After  Dark,'  '  A  Cruise  on 
Wheels,'  and  other  novels,  which  have  been  overshad- 
owed by  the  greater  popularity  of  the  writings  of  his 
brother,  Mr.  Wilkie  ColUns. 

"  In  London,  Dickens  lived  mostly  at  the  Garrick 
Club,  where  he  filled  as  large  a  place  as  John  Dryden 
used  to  fill  at  Will's  Coffee-House.  There  was  at  one 
time  some  alarm  created  lest  he  should  leave  the  Gar- 
rick in  consequence,  as  it  was  whispered,  of  the  fact  that 
one  of  his  friends  and  publishers  had  been  blackballed 
there ;  but  the  trouble  was  composed,  and  the  Garrick 
knew  him  to  the  last.  His  town  apartments  were  com- 
fortably fitted  up,  but  were  not  in  the  fashionable  quar- 
ter. They  constituted  the  second  floor  of  the  house  in 
AVellington  Street,  Strand,  the  lower  part  of  which  was 
occupied  by  the  Ijusiness-office  of  '  All  the  Year  Round.' 
Mayfair  saw  little  of  Dickens ;  nor  was  Belgravia  one  of 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  365 

his  familiar  liannts.  We  believe  he  was  never  presented  at 
court ;  but  it  was  not  long  ago, — since  his  last  return  from 
the  United  States,  —  that  the  queen  invited  him  to  come 
and  see  her  ;  and  he  spent  a  day  at  Windsor  Castle. 

"  When  in  London,  Dickens  might  be  seen  at  dinner 
more  frequently  than  anywhere  else,  at  Verrey's,  a  res- 
taurant in  the  upper  part  of  Regent  Street,  where,  often 
with  Wilkie  Collins,  he  sat  at  a  little  table  in  the  corner 
reserved  for  him  especially  by  the  maitre  dliotel. 

"Early  in  life,  — just  after  the  publication  of  'Pick- 
wick,' —  Mr.  Dickens  married  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
George  Hogarth,  the  author  and  critic.  He  separated 
from  her  in  1858 ;  and,  as  the  event  called  forth  a  great 
deal  of  ill-natured  comment,  the  following  letter  was 
written  for  the  purpose  of  being  shown  to  the  public  :  — 

"  '  My  Dear ,  Mrs.  Dickens  and  I  have  lived  un- 
happily together  for  many  years.  Hardly  any  one  who 
has  known  us  intimately  can  fail  to  have  known  that  we 
are,  in  all  respects  of  character  and  temperament,  won- 
derfully unsuited  to  each  other.  I  suppose  that  no  two 
people,  not  vicious  in  themselves,  ever  were  joined  to- 
gether, who  had  greater  difficulty  in  understanding  one 
another,  or  who  had  less  in  common.  An  attached 
woman-servant  (more  friend  to  both  of  us  than  a  ser- 
vant), who  lived  with  us  sixteen  years,  and  is  now  married, 
and  who  was,  and  still  is,  in  Mrs.  Dickens's  conlidence 
and  mine,  who  had  the  closest  familiar  experience  of 


356  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS  OF 

this  unhappiness  in  London,  in  the  country,  in  France, 
in  Italy,  wherever  we  have  been,  year  after  year,  month 
after  month,  week  after  week,  clay  after  day,  will  bear 
testimony  to  this. 

"  '  Nothing  has,  on  many  occasions,  stood  between  us 
and  a  separation,  but  Mrs.  Dickens's  sister,  Georgine 
Hogarth.  From  the  age  of  fifteen,  she  has  devoted  her- 
self to  our  house  and  children.  She  has  been  their 
playmate,  nurse,  instructress,  friend,  protectress,  adviser, 
and  companion.  In  the  manly  consideration  towards 
INIrs.  Dickens  which  I  owe  to  my  wife,  I  will  merely  re- 
mark of  her,  that  the  peculiarity  of  her  character  has 
thrown  all  the  care  of  the  children  on  some  one  else.  I 
do  not  know,  I  cannot  by  any  stretch  of  fancy  imagine, 
what  would  have  become  of  them  but  for  tliis  aunt, 
who  has  grown  up  with  them,  to  whom  they  are  devoted, 
and  who  has  sacrificed  the  best  part  of  her  youth  and 
life  to  them. 

" '  She  has  remonstrated,  reasoned,  suffered,  and 
toiled,  and  come  again,  to  prevent  a  separation  between 
Mrs.  Dickens  and  me.  Mrs.  Dickens  has  often  ex- 
pressed to  her  her  sense  of  her  affectionate  care  and  de- 
votion in  the  house,  —  never  more  strongly  than  in  the 
last  twelve  months. 

"  '  For  some  years  past,  Mrs.  Dickens  has  been  in  the 
habit  of  representing  to  me,  that  it  would  be  better  for 
her  to  go  away  and  live  apart ;  that  her  always  increas- 
ing estrangement  made  a  mental  disorder  under  which 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  357 

she  sometimes  labors  ;  more,  she  felt  herself  unfit  for  the 
life  she  had  to  lead  as  my  wife,  and  that  she  would  he  far 
better  away.  I  have  uniformly  replied,  that  she  must 
bear  our  misfortune,  and  fight  the  fight  out  to  the  end ; 
that  the  children  were  the  first  consideration ;  and 
that  I  feared  they  must  bind  us  together  "  in  appear- 
ance." 

"  '  At  length,  within  these  three  weeks,  it  was  sug- 
gested to  me  by  Forester,  that,  even  for  their  sakes,  it 
would  be  better  to  reconstruct  and  re-arrange  the  un- 
happy home.  I  empowered  him  to  treat  with  Mrs. 
Dickens,  as  the  friend  of  both  us  for  one  and  twenty 
years.  Mrs.  Dickens  wished  to  add,  on  her  part,  Mark 
Lemon,  and  did  so.  On  Saturday  last.  Lemon  wrote  to 
Forester,  that  Mrs.  Dickens  "  gratefully  and  thankfully 
accepted"  the  terms  I  proposed. to  her.  Of  the  pecu- 
niary part  of  them,  I  will  say,  that  they  are  as  generous 
as  if  Mrs.  Dickens  were  a  lady  of  distinction,  and  I  a 
man  of  fortune. 

"  '  The  remaining  parts  of  them  are  easily  described, 
—  my  eldest  boy  to  live  with  Mrs.  Dickens,  and  to  take 
care  of  her  ;  my  eldest  girl  to  keep  my  house  ;  both  my 
girls,  and  all  my  children  but  the  eldest  son,  to  live  with 
me,  in  continued  companionship  of  their  Aunt  Georgine, 
for  whom  they  have  all  the  tenderest  affections  that  I 
have  ever  seen  among  young  people,  and  who  has  a 
higher  claim  (as  I  have  often  declared  for  many  years) 
upon  my  affection,  respect,  and  gratitude  than  any- 
body in  this  world. 


358  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

"  '  I  hope  that  no  one  who  may  become  acquainted  with 
what  I  write  here  can  possibly  be  so  cruel  and  unjust  as 
to  put  any  misconstruction  on  our  separation  so  far.  My 
older  children  all  understand  it  perfectly,  and  all  accept 
it  as  inevitable; 

" '  Tliere  is  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  or  concealment 
among  us.     My  eldest  son  and  I  are  one  as  to  it  all. 

"  '  Two  wicked  persons,  who  should  have  spoken  very 
differently  of  me,  in  consideration  of  earned  respect  and 
gratitude,  have  (as  I  am  told,  and,  indeed,  to  my 
pesonal  knowledge)  coupled  with  this  separation  the 
name  of  a  young  lady  for  whom  I  have  a  great  attach- 
ment and  regard.  I  will  not  repeat  the  name :  I  honor 
it  too  much.  Upon  my  soul  and  honor,  there  is  not 
upon  this  earth  a  more  virtuous  and  spotless  creature 
than  that  young  lady._  I  know  her  to  be  innocent  and 
pure,  and  as  good  as  my  own  daughters. 

"  '  Further  :  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Dickens,  having 
received  this  assurance  from  me,  must  now  believe  it,  in 
the  respect  I  know  her  to  have  for  me,  and  in  the  perfect 
confidence  I  know  her,  in  her  better  moments,  to  repose 
in  my  truthfulness. 

"  '  On  this  head,  again,  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  a 
doubt  or  concealment  between  my  children  and  me.  All 
is  open  and  plain  among  us  as  though  we  were  brothers 
and  sisters.  -They  are  perfectly  certain  that  I  would  not 
deceive  them  ;  and  the  confidence  among  us  is  without  a 
fear.  C.  D.'  " 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  359 

One  of  the  sons  of  Charles  Dickens  is  an  officer  in  the 
British  army ;  and  another  is  a  student  at  Trinity  Hall, 
Cambridge. 

A  lady  writer  in  "  The  New-York  Tribune"  thus  de- 
scribes a  part}^  at  the  house  of  Dickens  :  — 

"  It  was  in  June,  1852,  just  eighteen  years  before  the 
date  of  his  death,  that  I  first  saw  Charles  Dickens  in 
London.  I  had  sent  a  letter  to  him  fi'om  his  friend,  Mr. 
G.  P.  R.  James.  Mrs.  Dickens  called,  at  his  request,  and 
invited  me  to  a  dinner,  kindly  promising  that  I  should 
meet  a  number  of  the  authors  and  artists  that  I  most 
desired  to  see.  I  have  in  my  mind  still  a  perfectly  dis- 
tinct picture  of  the  bright,  elegant  interior  of  Tavistock 
House,  and  of  its  inmates,  —  of  my  host  himself,  then  in 
his  early  prime ;  of  Mrs.  Dickens,  a  plump,  rosy,  Eng- 
lish, handsome  woman,  with  a  certain  air  of  absent- 
mindedness,  yet  gentle  and  kindly ;  Miss  Hogarth,  a 
very  lovely  person,  with  charming  manners ;  and  the 
young  ladies,  then  very  young,  real  English  girls,  fresh 
and  simple,  and  innocent-looking  as  English  daisies.  I 
was  received  in  the  library.  Mr.  Dickens  —  how  clearly 
he  stands  before  me  now,  with  his  frank,  encouraging 
smile,  and  the  light  of  welcome  in  liis  eyes  !  —  was  then 
slight  in  person,  and  rather  pale  than  otherwise.  The 
symmetrical  form  of  his  head,  and  the  fine,  spirited 
bearing  of  the  whole  figure,  struck  me  at  once ;  then 
the  hearty  bonhomie^  the  wholesome  sweetness  of   his 


360  LIFE   AND    WRITINGS    OF 

smile,  but,  more  than  any  thing  else,  the  great  beauty  of 
his  eyes.  They  were  the  eyes  of  a  master,  with  no 
consciousness  of  mastery  in  them  :  they  were  brilliant 
without  hardness,  and  searching  without  sharpness.  I 
felt,  I  always  felt,  that  they  read  me  clearly  and  deeply, 
yet  could  never  fear  their  keen  scrutiny.  They  never 
made  you  feel  uncomfortable.  I  can  but  think  it  a  pity, 
that,  in  so  many  of  the  pictures  we  have  of  him,  the 
effect  of  his  eyes  is  nearly  lost  by  their  being  cast  down. 
They  had  in  them  all  the  humor  and  all  the  humanity  of 
the  man.  You  saw  in  them  all  the  splendid  possibilities 
of  his  genius,  all  the  manly  tenderness  of  his  nature. 

"  Approaching  Mr.  Dickens  as  I  did,  with  what  he 
would  have  considered  extravagant  hero-worship,  I  was 
surprised  to  find  myself  speedily  and  entirely  at  my  ease. 
Still  he  seemed  to  put  forth  no  effort  to  make  me  feel  so. 
In  manner  he  was  more  quiet  than  I  expected,  —  simple, 
and  apparently  unconscious.  In  conversation  he  was  cer- 
tainly not  brilliant,  after  the  manner  of  a  professional 
talker.  His  talk  did  not  bubble  with  puns,  nor  scintil- 
late with  epigrams  ;  but  it  was  racy  and  suggestive,  with 
a  fine  flavor  of  originality  and  satire ;  and  the  effect  of 
every  thing  he  said  was  doubled  by  the  expression  of 
those  wonderful  eyes.  They  were  great  hstening  eyes. 
AVhen  I  remember  how  they  would  kindle  at  even  my 
crude  criticisms,  my  awkward  attempts  to  convey  to  him 
the  ideas  and  emotions  which  my  visit  to  the  Old  World 
had  called  out,  I  can  imagme  the  eager  look,  the  kindred 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  361 

flash,  with  wliicli  they  must  have  responded  to  the  won- 
derful talk  of  Douglas  Jerrold  and  the  lightning-like 
play  of  his  wit,  to  the  splendid  cynicism  of  Carlyle,  to 
the  titanic  fancies  of  Landor,  to  the  dramatic  word- 
painting  of  Browning.  At  such  times,  the  whole  sym- 
pathetic, mobile  face  must  almost  have  worn  the  look  of 

that  of 

'  Some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken.' 

"  So  completely,  in  his  generous  appreciation  and  hos- 
pitable interest,  did  Mr.  Dickens  seem  to  pass  out  of 
himself,  that  I  had  strange  difficulty  in  realizing  that  he 
was  he;  that  the  alert,  jaunty  figure,  dressed  with  ex- 
treme nicety,  and  in  a  style  bordering  on  the  ornate, 
and  with  such  elegant  and  luxurious  surroundings,  was 
indeed  the  great  friend  of  the  people,  tlie  romancer  of 
common  life  ;  that  the  kindly,  considerate  host  who  saw 
every  thing,  heard  every  thing,  was  the  poetic,  dramatic 
novelist,  who,  next  to  Shakspeare,  had  been  for  years 
the  '  god  of  my  idolatry.' 

"  I  need  not  here  describe  that  dinner-party.  A  par- 
tial list  of  the  guests  will  show  how  brilliant  it  must 
have  been :  Charles  Kemble  and  his  daughter  Adelaide 
(Madame  Sartoris)  ;  Mr.  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall) 
and  his  accomplished  wife;  Emil  Devrient,  the  great 
German  actor;  John  Kenyon,  the  poet-banker-;  and  his 
grand  friend,  Walter  Savage  Landor.    .  .  . 

"  O  night  of  nights  !    I  had  heard  Landor  talk,  and 


362  LIFE   AND   WAITINGS   OF 

Adelaide  Kemble  sing,  and  Cliarles  Dickens  handed  me 
to  my  carriage,  taking  leave  of  me  with  a  '  God  bless 
you  ! '  and  I  drove  home  through  the  soft  summer  air 
with  my  head  among  the  stars." 

Charles  Dickens's  last  earthly  home  was  called  Gad's 
Hill.  "  The  London  News  "  tells  how  he  obtained  the 
place :  — 

"  Though  not  born  at  Rochester,  Mr.  Dickens  spent 
some  portion  of  his  boyhood  there,  and  was  wont  to  tell 
how  his  father,  the  late  Mr.  John  Dickens,  in  the  course 
of  a  country  ramble,  pointed  out  to  him  as  a  child  the 
house  at  Gad's-hill  Place,  saying,  '  There,  my  boy,  if 
you  work,  and  mind  jonr  book,  you  will  perhaps  one  day 
live  in  a  house  like  that.'  This  speech  sunk  deep  ;  and 
in  after -years,  and  in  the  course  of  his  many  long 
pedestrian  rambles  through  the  lanes  and  roads  of  the 
pleasant  Kentish  country,  Mr.  Dickens  came  to  regard 
this  Gad's-hill  house  lovingly,  and  to  wish  himself  its 
possessor.  This  seemed  an  impossibility.  The  property 
was  so  held,  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of  its  ever 
coming  into  the  market ;  and  so  Gad's  Hill  came  to  be 
alluded  to  jocularly  as  representing  a  fancy  which  was 
pleasant  enough  in  dreamland,  but  would  never  be 
realized.  Meanwhile,  the  years  rolled  on,  and  Gad's 
Hill  became  almost  forgotten ;  then  a  further  lapse  of 
time,  and  Mr.  Dickens  felt  a  strong  wish  to  settle  in  the 


CHAKLES  DICKENS.  363 

country,  and  determined  to  let  Tavistock  House.  About 
this  time,  and  by  the  strangest  coincidence,  his  intimate 
friend  and  close  ally,  Mr.  W.  H.  WiUs,  chanced  to  sit 
next  to  a  lady  at  a  London  dinner-party,  who  remarked,  in 
the  course  of  conversation,  that  a  house  and  grounds  had 
come  into  her  possession,  of  which  she  wanted  to  dispose. 
The  reader  will  guess  the  rest.  The  house  v/as  in  Kent, 
was  not  far  from  Rochester,  had  this  and  that  distin- 
guishing feature  which  made  it  like  Gad's  Hill,  and  like 
no  other  place ;  and  the  upshot  of  Mr.  Wills's  dinner- 
table  chit-chat  with  a  lady  whom  he  had  never  met 
before  was,  that  Charles  Dickens  realized  the  dream  of 
his  youth,  and  became  the  possessor  of  Gad's  Hill.  It 
will  now  be  sold,  as  well  as  the  valuable  collection  of 
original  pictures  which  Mr.  Dickens  gathered  together 
during  his  life,  and  many  of  which  are  illustrative  of  his 
works." 

Gad's  Hill  is  near  Rochester,  on  the  London  side,  and 
about  twenty-five  miles  from  London,  Donald  G.  Mit- 
chell, in  "  Hearth  and  Home,"  has  given  a  very  pleasant 
picture  of  Gad's  Hill,  and  Dickens  at  home.  "  Dinner 
was  a  gala-time  ;  but  unceremonious,  and  regardless  of 
dress,  as  he  might  be  in  the  earlier  hours  of  the  day, 
he,  in  his  latter  years  at  least,  kept  by  the  old  English 
ceremonial  dress  for  dinner.  His  butler  and  servant 
were  also  habited  conventionally ;  and  the  same  notion 
of  conventional  requirement,  it  will  be  remembered,  he 


364  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

observed  always  in  his  readings  and  appearance  on 
public  occasions.  But  the  laws  of  etiquette,  however 
faithfully  and  constantly  followed,  did  not  sit  easily  on 
him  ;  and  there  is  no  portrait  of  him,  which,  to  our  mind, 
is  so  agreeable  as  that  which  represents  him  in  an  old 
loose  morning-jacket,  leaning  against  a  column  of  his 
porch  upon  Gad's  Hill,  with  his  family  grouped  around 
him.  As  dinner  came  to  its  close,  the  little  grand- 
children tottled  in,  —  his  '  wenerable '  friends,  as  he 
delighted  to  call  them  ;  and  with  their  advent  came 
always  a  rolUcking  time  of  cheer." 

Mr.  Philp  has  thus  pictured  Gad's  Hill.  "  The 
house  is  a  charming  old  mansion  a  little  modernized,  — 
the  lawn  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  illuminated  by 
thousands  of  scarlet  geraniums.  The  estate  is  covered 
with  magnificent  old  trees ;  and  several  cedars  of 
Lebanon  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  In  the  midst  of 
a  small  plantation  across  the  road,  opposite  the  house, 
approached  by  a  tunnel  from  the  lawn  under  the  turn- 
pike-road, is  a  French  chalet,  sent  to  Dickens  as  a  pres- 
ent, in  ninety-eight  pacldng-cases.  Here  Mr.  Dickens 
dbes  most  of  his  writing,  where  he  can  be  perfectly 
quiet,  and  not  disturbed  by  anj'body.  I  need  scarcely 
say  that  the  house  is  crowded  with  fine  pictures,  original 
sketches  for  his  books,  choice  engra\'ings,  &c. ;  in  fact, 
one  might  be  amused  for  a  month  in  looking  over  the 
objects  of  interest,  which  are  numerous  and  beautiful. 


CHARLES   DICKERS.  365 

Inside  the  hall  are  portions  of  the  scenery  painted  by 
Stanfield  for  'The  Frozen  Deep,'  the  play  in  which 
Dickens  and  others  performed  for  the  benefit  of  Douglas 
Jerrold's  family ;  written  by  Wilkie  Collins.  Just  as 
you  enter,  in  a  neat  frame,  written  and  illuminated  by 
Owen  Jones,  is  the  following :  '  This  house,  Gad's-hill 
Place,  stands  on  the  summit  of  Shakspeare's  Gad's 
Hill,  ever  memorable  for  its  association,  in  his  noble 
fancy,  with  Sir  John  Falstaff.  "But,  my  lads,  my  lads, 
to-morrow  morning,  by  four  o'clock,  early  at  Gad's  Hill. 
There  are  j)ilgrims  going  to  Canterbury  with  rich  offer- 
ings, and  traders  riding  to  London  with  fat  purses.  I 
have  visors  for  you  all :  you  have  horses  for  yourselves.'  " 
"  In  the  dining-room  hangs  Frith's  original  picture  of 
Dolly  Varden,  and  Maclise's  portrait  of  Dickens  when 
a  young  man ;  also  Cattermole's  wonderful  drawings, 
illustrating  some  of  Dickens's  most  touching  scenes ; 
besides  several  exquisite  w^orks  by  Marcus  Stone  (who 
illustrated  '  Our  Mutual  Friend'),  David  Roberts,  Gal- 
lon, Stanfield,  and  others.  My  bedroom  was  the  per- 
fection of  a  sleeping-apartment ;  the  view  across  the 
Kentish  Hills,  with  a  distant  peep  at  the  Thames, 
charming.  The  screen  shutting  off  the  dressing-room 
from  the  bedroom  is  covered  with  proof-impressions, 
neatly  framed,  of  the  illustrations  to  '  Our  jNIutual 
Friend,'  and  other  works.  In  every  room,  I  found  a 
table  covered  with  writing-materials,  headed  note-paper 
and   envelopes,  cut  quill  pens,  wax,  matches,  sealmg- 


366  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF 

wax  ;  and  all  scrupulously  neat  and  orderly.  There  are 
magnificent  specimens  of  Newfoundland  dogs  on  the 
grounds,  —  such  animals  as  Landseer  would  love  to  paint. 
One  of  them,  Bumble,  seems  to  be  a  favorite  with 
Dickens.  They  are  all  named  after  characters  in 
Dickens's  works.  Dickens  at  home  seems  to  be  perpet- 
luilly  jolly,  and  enters  into  the  interests  of  games  with 
all  the  ardor  of  a  boy.  Physically,  as  well  as  men- 
tally, he  is  immensely  strong,  having  quite  regained"  his 
wonted  health  and  strength.  He  is  an  immense  walker, 
and  never  seems  to  be  fatigued.  He  breakfasts  at  eight 
o'clock ;  immediately  after,  answers  all  the  letters  re- 
ceived that  morning  ;  writes  until  one  o'clock  ;  lunches ; 
walks  twelve  miles  (every  day)  ;  dines  at  six  ;  and  passes 
the  evening  entertaining  his  numerous  friends." 

In  a  letter  written  long  ago  to  a  friend  in  America,  he 
thus  describes  his  home  :  — 

"  Divers  birds  sing  here  all  day,-  and  the  nightingales 
all  night.  The  place  is  lovel}^  and  in  perfect  order.  I 
have  put  five  mirrors  in  the  Swiss  cMlet  (where  I 
write),  and  they  reflect  and  refract,  in  all  kinds  of  ways, 
the  leaves  that  are  quivering  at  the  windows,  and  the 
great  fields  of  waving  corn,  and  the  sail-dotted  river. 
My  room  is  up  among  the  branches  of  the  trees ;  and 
the  birds  and  the  butterflies  fly  in  and  out ;  and  the  green 
branches  shoot  in  at  the  open  windows ;  and  the  lights 


CflARLES   DICKENS.  367 

and  shadows  of  the  clouds  come  and  go  with  the  rest 
of  the  company.  The  scent  of  the  flowers,  and,  mdeed, 
of  every  thing  that  is  growing  for  miles  and  miles,  is 
most  delicious." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


THE    UNFINISHED    STORY. 

Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood.  —  Sudden  Illness.  —  Death. 

"  There  is  no  death  :  what  seems  so  is  transition. 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 

Is  hut  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

"Whose  portals  we  call  death." 

LONGFELI.OW. 

•  O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?  "  —  1  COR.  xv.  55. 

R.  DICKENS'S  readings  interfered  with 
liis  writing  ;  and  therefore  he  gave  a  long- 
ing pubUc  no  otlier  work  till  the  first  num- 
ber of  "  The  Mj^steiy  of  Edwin  Drood,"' 
which  appeared  in  March,  1870.  It  Avas 
to  be  completed  in  twelve  parts,  and  was  published 
simultaneously  in  London  and  in  Boston.  Only  three 
numbers  had  been  published  when  he  passed  away. 

It  is  a  remarkable  coincidence  that  the  last  completed 
work  the  novelist  wrote  ended  with  this  paragraph :  — 


"  On  Friday,  the   9th   of  Jime,  in  the  present  year, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boffin  (in  the  manuscript-dress  of  receiv- 

368 


CHARLES   DICKEXS.  369 

ing  ]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Lammle  at  breakfast)  were  in  the 
South-Eastern  Railway  with  me  in  a  terribly  destructive 
accident.  When  I  had  done  what  I  could  to  help  oth- 
ers, I  climbed  back  into  my  carriage,  nearly  turned  over 
a  viaduct,  and  caught  aslant  upon  the  turn,  to  extricate 
the  worthy  couple.  They  were  much  soiled,  but  other- 
wise unhurt.  The  same  happy  result  attended  Miss 
Bella  Wilfer  on  her  wedding-day,  and  Mr.  Riderhood 
inspecting  Bradley  Headstone's  red  neckerchief  as  he 
lay  asleep.  I  remember  with  devout  thankfulness,  that 
I  can  never  be  much  nearer  parting  company  with  my 
readers  forever  than  I  was  then,  until  there  shall  be 
written  against  my  life  the  two  words  with  which  I 
have  closed  this  book,  —  the  end." 

After  his  return  from  America,  he  continued  to  give 
readings  in  different  parts  of  England ;  but  on  the  even- 
ing of  March  16  last  he  brought  to  a  close,  at  St.  James' 
Hall,  in  London,  his  series  of  public  readings.  He  said 
in  his  remarks  at  the  close,  — 

"  I  have  thought  it  well,  at  the  full  flood-tide  of  youi- 
favor,  to  retire  upon  those  older  associations  between 
us,  which  date  from  much  farther  back  than  these,  and 
henceforth  to  devote  myself  exclusively  to  the  art  that 
first  brought  us  together.  [Great  applause.]  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  in  but  two  short  weeks  from  this  time,  I 
hope  that  you  may  enter,  in  your  own  houses,  on  a  new 

24 


370  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

'  series  of  readings,'  at  which  my  assistance  will  be  in- 
dispensable ;  but  from  this  garish  light  I  vanish  now 
forevermore,  with  a  heartfelt,  grateful,  respectful,  and 
affectionate  farewell." 

Carlyle  is  "reported  as  saying,  that  he  never  saw  nor 
heard  of  any  thing  so  extraordinary  in  its  way  as  the 
j)icturesque-dramatic  power  of  ]\Ir.  Dickens  in  his  read- 
ings. '  Mr.  Dickens,  in  some  characters,'  said  his  philo- 
sophic observer,  '  costumes  his  mind  with  a  completeness 
that  is  so  absolutely  perfect.'  This  puts  it  into  my  head 
to  tell  a  little  story  which  I  long  since  heard, — how,  one 
evening,  the  great  novelist  was  reading,  I  think  the  trial- 
scene  in  '  Pickwick,'  to  an  audience  of  rank  and  fashion, 
and  all  that,  in  London.  Presently,  rank  and  .fashion 
began  to  have  their  attention  drawn  to  an  explosive 
merriment  in  one  part  of  the  hall.  On  the  front  bench 
sat  a  tall  man,  blue-eyed  and  gray-haired,  who  ever  and 
anon  swung  his  steeple-crowned  felt  hat  forcibly  down 
on  his  knees,  bursting  into  peals  of  such  inextinguisha- 
ble laughter  -as  the  gods  on  Homer's  Olympus  when 
they  beheld  limp-footed  Vulcan  halting  round  the  circle 
as  cup-bearer.  Rank  and  fashion  were  inclined  to  be 
shocked  at  this  unconventional  mirth  :  but  by  and  by  the 
whisper  went  round  that  he  of  the  steeple-hat  was  no 
other  than  Thomas  Carlyle  of  Chelsea ;  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening  INIr.  Dickens  had  but  a  divided  attention 
fi'om  his  reverently  wondering  audience." 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  371 

Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  write,  in  correction  of 
sundry  erroneous  reports,  to  say  that  three  numbers  of 
"  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood,"  the  novel  on  which 
Mr.  Dickens  was  at  work  when  he  died,  were  left  com- 
plete, in  addition  to  those  already  published ;  this  beino- 
one-half  of  the  story  as  it  was  intended  to  be  written. 
These  numbers  will  be  published,  and  the  fragment  will 
remain  a  fragment.  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  add,  "No 
other  writer  could  be  permitted  by  us  to  complete  the 
work  which  Mr.  Dickens  has  left." 

Says  "  The  New- York  Tribune  "  very  truly,  "  Ten  or 
twenty  millions  of  people  keep  a  corner  in  their  hearts 
for  Dickens,  because  he  has  seen  so  perfectly  the  poetrj-, 
the  beauty,  the  hundred  lessons,  which  the  life  of  the 
masses  contains ;  and  in  all  that  he  has  done  he  has 
striven  for  their  good.  '  I  have  always  had,  and  always 
shall  have,'  said  ]ie  on  his  first  visit  to  this  country,  '  an 
earnest  and  true  desire  to  contribute,  as  far  as  in  me 
lies,  to  the  common  stock  of  healthful  cheerfulness  and 
enjoyment.  I  believe  that  Virtue  shows  quite  as  well 
in  rags  and  patches  as  she  does  in  purple  and  fine  linen. 
I  believe  that  she,  and  every  beautiful  object  in  external 
nature,  claims  some  sympathy  in  the  poorest  man  who 
breaks  his  scanty  loaf  of  daily  bread.'  So,  in  the  faith 
that  literature  was  not  for  the  rich  alone,  and  the  no- 
blest work  was  the  work  done  for  the  poor,  he  bent 
himself  bravely  to  his  splendid  task." 


372  LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF 

Mr.  Dickens  died  on  the  9th  of  June,  1870.  "  The 
London  News  "  thus  gives  particulars :  — 

"  He  was  at  Rochester  the  7th  instant :  on  Wednes- 
day, he  was  emplo^^ed  at  his  literary  labors  until  dinner. 
When  at  dinner,  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  pain  in 
the  head,  and  fell  down,  becoming  totally  unconscious. 
He  was  placed  on  a  sofa  in  the  dining-room,  as  it  was 
not  considered  advisable  to  remove  him  up  stairs.  Mr. 
S.  Steele  of  Strood,  his  local  medical  adviser,  was  sent 
for,  and  found  him  laboring  under  a  severe  form  of  apo- 
plexy. Stertorous  breathing  had  taken  place  ;  and  the 
extremities  very  soon  became  cold.  Mr.  Steele  re- 
mained with  him  until  near  midnight,  when  ]Mr.  F.  Carr 
Beard,  surgeon,  of  Welbeck  Street,  London,  an  old  per- 
sonal friend  of  Mr.  Dickens,  arrived,  with  INIrs.  Collins 
and  Miss  Dickens,  daughters  of  the  great  novelist.  Mr. 
Beard  immediately  consulted  with  Mr.  Steele  ;  but  they 
had  little  hope.  Mr.  Dickens  was  still  unconscious,  and 
remained  in  that  state  up  to  the  time  of  his  death.  Mr. 
Beard  remained  with  him  all  night.  Dr.  J.  Russell 
Reynolds,  the  eminent  physician  of  Grosvenor  Street, 
was  telegraphed  for,  and  arrived  on  Thursday  after- 
noon. He  agreed  with  Messrs.  Beard  and  Steele  in 
considering  the  case  a  hopeless  one  from  the  first.  His 
death  took  j)lace  at  half-past  six  o'clock.  Mr.  Dickens 
was  well  on  Wednesday,  and  wrote  a  great  deal  during 
the  day.     He  had  lately  had  no  premonitory  symptoms 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  373 

of  an  affection  of  the  brain.  A  post-ynortem  examination 
is  to  be  made.  A  contemporary  states,  that,  Avhen  Mr. 
Dickens  sat  down  to  dinner  on  Wednesday,  his  sister- 
in-law,  Miss  Hogarth,  observed  an  unusual  appearance 
in  his  face,  and  became  alarmed,  and  said  she  feared  he 
was  ill,  proposing  in  the  same  breath  to  telegraph  for 
medical  assistance.  Mr.  Dickens  replied,  '  No,  no,  no  : 
I  have  got  the  toothache,  and  shall  be  better  presently.' 
He  then  asked  that  the  windoAV  might  be  shut ;  and 
almost  immediately  he  lapsed  into  unconsciousness,  from 
which  state  he  never  recovered  till  the  moment  of  his 
death.  INIr.  Charles  Dickens,  the  younger,  was  tele- 
graphed for  on  Wednesday  evening ;  but  the  message  did 
not  reach  London  till  Thursday  morning.  He  started 
instantly  for  his  father's  residence,  and  was  present  at 
the  death-bed,  with  two  of  his  sisters,  Miss  Hogarth, 
and  the  medical  attendants.  The  day  of  his  death  was, 
strange  to  say,  the  anniversary  of  the  Staplehurst  acci- 
dent, in  which,  it  will  be  remembered,  he  was  in  great 
j)eril,  and  from  which  some  of  those  nearest  to  him  con- 
sider he  received  a  physical  shock  from  which  he  never 
really  recovered.  The  friends  in  the  habit  of  meeting 
Mr.  Dickens  privately,  recall  now  the  energy  with  which 
he  depicted  that  dreadful  scene,  and  how,  as  the  climax 
of  his  story  came,  aiid  its  dread  interest  grew,  he  wonld 
rise  from  the  table,  and  literally  act  the  parts  of  the  sev- 
eral sufferers  to  whom  he  had  lent  a  helping  hand.  Now 
that  he  is  gone,  it  is  remembered  with  absolute  pain. 


374  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

that  one  of  the  first  surgeons  of  the  day,  who  was  pres- 
ent when  this  Staplehurst  story  was  tokl,  soon  after  its 
occurrence,  remarked,  that  '  the  worst  of  these  railway 
accidents  was  the  difficulty  of  determining  the  period  at 
which  the  system  could  be  said  to  have  survived  the 
shock ;  and  that  instances  were  on  record  of  two  or  three 
years  having  gone  by  before  the  life-sufferer  knew  that 
he  was  seriously  hurt.'  But  the  medical  testimony  as  to 
the  immediate  cause  of  Mr.  Dickens's  death  is  definite 
and  precise.  Apoplexy,  an  effusion  of  blood  on  the  brain, 
—  the  cause  an  overstrained  sj'stem,  and  tJie  result 
one  wliich  was  only  staved  off  twelve  months  ago,  when 
he  was  induced  to  obey  his  doctor's  injunctions,  and  sus- 
pend his  readings  in  public,  —  has  carried  him  away  at  a 
comparatively  early  age  ;  and  all  that  remains  to  liis  sor- 
rowing friends  is  to  recall  with  afi^ection  the  many  traits 
which  made  this  great  man  so  lovable." 

The  cause  of  the  death  of  Dickens  is  attributed  by 
a  London  correspondent  of  "  The  Scotsman  "  to  the 
mental  labor  of  writing  "  Edwin  Drood."     The  writer 

says,  — 

"  Since  his  sudden  seizure  in  the  midst  of  his  read- 
ings last  year,  Mr.  Dickens  has  never  been  the  same 
man.  After  a  little  while,  he  began  to  go  about  as  be- 
fore ;  flitted  to  and  fro  in  his  ardent,  restless  way ;  took 
long  walks,  after  his  favorite  fashion,  starting  on  the 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  37o 

whim  of  the  moment,  at  any  hour,  for  anywhere  ;  and 
resumed  his  writing  and  other  hxbors,  but  not  with  the 
same  lightness  and  vivacity  as  before.  Though  a  sturdy 
walker,  there  had  always  been  something  of  a  limp  in 
his  gait ;  and  this  now  became  more  marked.  He  had 
more  need  of  his  stick,  and  stooped  perceptibly.  He 
grew  sooner  wearied,  both  in  walking  and  in  work,  and 
complained,  at  times,  of  a  strange  supineness  of  mind, 
and  labored  slowness  with  the  pen.  Those  who  had 
not  seen  him  for  some  time  were  most  struck  on  meet- 
ing him,  within  the  last  few  months,  with  the  sudden 
whiteness  of  his  hair.  From  gray,  he  became  all  at 
once  white,  — just  as  Mr.  Bright  did  not  long  since.  I 
saw  him  a  few  weeks  ago,  just  before  he  left  town ;  and 
his  sunburned  face  seemed  set  in  snow,  his  beard  and 
hair  were  bleached  so  perfectly.  Beyond  question,  I 
think  it  was  '  Edwin  Drood '  that  killed  him.  He  went 
back  to  work  too  soon.  He  had  had  the  idea  of  the 
story  for  some  time  in  his  mind,  I  beheve ;  but,  after 
the  first  impulse  of  the  start  was  off,  he  found  the  de- 
velopment of  the  incidents  and  characters  slow  and 
painful.  Within  the  last  week  or  so,  he  was  planning 
much  of  this.  He  seemed  to  make  so  little  progress, 
and  at  the  cost  of  such  an  effort.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
hot  weather,  he  thought,  or  he  was  out  of  sorts,  and 
would  get  into  better  trim  by  and  by.  But  the  disorder 
was  deeper  and  more  fatal.  Even  before  his  illness  last 
year,  however,  he  had  had  warnings  of  exhaustion.    He 


376  LIFE.  AND   WHITINGS. 

suffered,  at  times,  from  a  terrible  sleeplessness,  which 
often  drove  him  forth  at  midnight  to  walk  —  his  fa- 
vorite remedy  for  all  troubles  —  till  dawn.  Like 
Wordsworth,  he  belonged  to  the  scliool  of  peripatetics. 
Much  given  myself  to  walking  at  ail  hours,  I  have 
come  across  him  often  in  his  rambles,  always  marching 
swiftly,  with  earnest,  resolute  air,  as  if  bound  to  be  at 
some  given  spot  by  the  hour  and  minute  ;  his  quick, 
glancing  eye  scanning  every  thing  and  everybody.  In 
the  story  of  '  The  Two  Apprentices,'  which  he  wrote 
Avith  Wilkie  Collins,  he  described  his  own  restless,  im- 
petuous activity, — laborious  idleness  he  called  it.  All 
this  wear  and  tear  of  writing,  public  readings,  and  per- 
petual movement,  told  even  on  his  elastic  and  vigorous 
constitution  in  the  end.  The  American  trip  brought 
him  close  upon  thirty  thousand  pounds ;  but,  otherwise, 
I  doubt  whether  it  did  him  much  good.  Altogether, 
the  strain  was  too  severe.  Then  came  '  Edwin  Drood ' 
to  put  the  finishing-stroke  to  the  work." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


LAST   WORDS. 


Last  Letters  of  Mr.  Dickons.  — The  Queen's  Sorrow.  — A  Nation  mourns.  — The 
Funeral  of  the  Great  Jsovelist. 

"There  is  no  name  so  sweet  on  earth, 
No  name  so  sweet  in  heaven,  — 
The  name  before  his  wondrous  birth  • 

To  Christ  the  Saviour  given." 

ANOjmions. 

"  A  name  wliich  is  above  every  name." —  Phil.  ii.  9. 


N  the  day  that  Mr.  Dickens  was  seized 
with  apoplexy,  he  wrote  the  following 
letter :  — 


Gad's-Hill  Place,  Higham  by  Kochestee,  Kent, 

Wednesday,  the  8th  June,  1870. 

Dear  Sir,  —  It  would  be  quite  inconceivable  to  me, 
but  for  your  letter,  that  any  reasonable  reader  could 
possibly  attach  a  scriptural  reference  to  a  passage  in  a 
book  of  mine,  reproducing  a  much  abused  social  figure 
of  speech,  impressed  into  all  sorts  of  service,  on  all 
sorts  of  inappropriate  occasions,  without  the  faintest 
connection  of  it  with  its  original  source.     I  am  truly 

377 


378  LIFE   AND   WRITING-S    OF 

shocked  to  find  tliat  any  reader  can  make  the  mistake. 
I  have  always  striven  in  my  writings  to  express  venera- 
tion for  the  life  and  lessons  of  our  Saviour,  because  I 
feel  it,  and  because  I  re-wrote  that  history  for  my  chil- 
dren, —  every  one  of  whom  knew  it,  from  having  it  re- 
peated to  them,  long  before  they  could  read,  and  almost 
as  soon  as  they  could  speak.  But  I  have  never  made 
proclamation  of  tliis  from  the  housetops. 

Faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

He  wrote  that  letter  because  a  friend  had  written  to 
him,  calling  attention  to  a  passage  in  "  Edwin  Drood," 
which,  to  some  readers,  appeared  to  savor  of  irreverence. 

Charles  Dickens,  it  is  said,  was  never  formally  con- 
nected with  any  religious  sect ;  but  his  rule  was  to  wor- 
ship with  the  Unitarians.  While  Uving  in  London,  he 
attended  one  of  their  places  of  worship  regularly,  and 
had  a  family-pew  there.  He  held  similar  views  to 
those  of  Canon  Kingsle}^  and  believed  most  firmly  in 
the  final  triumph  of  the  Almighty  Power  and  Goodness 
over  all  evil.  He  wrote  his  books,  as  he  once  told  an 
American  whom  he  met  on  the  Ohio  River,  to  show 
that  there  was  not  one  beyond  the  reach  of  infinite 
mercy ;  that,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "  God  never 
made  any  thing  too  bad  to  be  saved." 

Dean  Stanley  at  the  funeral  read  the  following  ex- 
tract from  his  will,  dated  May  12,  1869  :  — 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  379 

"  I  direct  that  my  name  be  iuscribed  in  plain  English 
letters  on  my  tomb.  ...  I  enjoin  my  friends  on  no 
account  to  make  me  the  subject  of  any  monument, 
memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever.  ...  I  rest  my 
claims  to  the  remembrance  of  my  country  upon  my 
published  works,  and  the  remembrance  of  my  friends 
upon  their  experience  of  me  in  addition  thereto.  .  .  . 
I  commit  my  soul  to  the  mercy  of  God,  through  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ ;  and  I  exhort  my  dear 
children  to  try  and  guide  themselves  by  the  teaching 
of  the  New  Testament  in  its  broad  spirit,  and  to  put  no 
faith  in  any  man's  narrow  construction  of  its  letter." 

"  In  that  simple  but  sufficient  faith,"  said  the  dean, 
"  Charles  Dickens  lived  and  died.  In  that  faith,  he 
would  have  you  all  live  and  die  also ;  and  if  you  have 
learned  from  his  words  the  eternal  value  of  generosity, 
purity,  kindness,  and  unselfishness,  and  to  carry  them 
out  in  action,  those  are  the  best  '  monuments,  memo- 
rials, and  testimonials '  which  you,  his  fellow-country- 
men, can  raise  to  his  memory." 

Well  says  a  writer  in  "  The  Gospel  Banner,"  — 
"  When  Uncle  Tom  shall  lead  some  soul  away  from 
Christ,  or  little  Eva  lead  a  troop  of  children  to  perdi- 
tion, or  Aunt  Winnie  shut  the  gates  of  heaven,  which 
are  now  ajar,  against  some  struggling  spirit,  it  will  be 
time  enough  for  stupid  pharisees  to  preach  against  all 


380  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 

fictitious  literature  (save  what  is  sanctioned  by  the  pub- 
lishing committees  of  large  religious  book-concerns), 
and  especially  against  such  creations  as  Little  Dorritt, 
Paul,  and  Little  NeU.  We  cannot  form  the  acquaint- 
ance of  such  characters,  whether  in  real  life  or  romance, 
witliout  being  elevated  and  enriched  hj  the  association. 
lie  has  peopled  the  world  of  imagination  with  visions 
of  immortal  worth  and  beauty  ;  and  they  will  henceforth 
be  a  part  of  the  heart-treasures  of  mankind.  How  could 
he  cause  his  creations  to  move  in  the  very  atmosphere 
of  Christianity,  and  to  be  moved  by  its  most  elevated 
motives,  if  he  himself  had  not  bathed  in  its  light,  and 
received  its  holy  influences  into  his  heart  ?  As  well 
could  artist  bring  forth  finished  photographs  from  the 
dark  caverns  of  the  earth,  as  any  man  incarnate  the  very 
principles  and  spirit  of  Christianity  in  his  creations  with- 
out himself  having  tasted  of  the  word  of  life." 

His  personal  independence  was  illustrated  by  his  rela- 
tions with  Victoria.  The  queen  was  among  his  admir- 
ers. As  an  expression  of  her  appreciation,  she  invited 
him  to  read  to  her.  He  declined  with  a  manlj"  spirit, 
saying  that  he  would  not  enter  any  house  professionally 
that  he  could  not  socially.  Afterwards,  the  queen, 
waiving  the  etiquette  of  the  court,  received  him  as  her 
friend.  He  could  have  had  a  title  and  high  office  ;  but 
he  refused  them. 

An  incident  is  mentioned  as  showing  in  how  great  re- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  381 

gard  Mr.  Dickens,  as  a  man  and  as  an  antlior,  was  held 
bj  the  Queen  of  England :  shortly  before  his  death,  he 
sent  to  her  Majesty  an  edition  of  his  collected  works  ; 
and  when  the  clerk  of  the  council  went  to  Balmoral 
last  week,  the  queen,  knowing  the  friendship  that  ex- 
isted between  Mr.  Dickens  and  IMr.  Helps,  showed  the 
latter  where  she  had  placed  the  gift  of  the  great  novel- 
ist. This  was  in  her  private  library ;  and  her  Majesty 
expressed  her  desire  that  Mr.  Helps  should  inform  Mr. 
Dickens  of  this  arrangement.  The  day  after  his  death, 
she  sent  a  special  messenger  with  a  letter  of  condolence 
to  his  family.  Sadly  appropriate  are  his  own  words  now 
to  his  friends  :  — 

"There  is  nothing — no,  nothing — beautiful  and  good, 
that  dies,  and  is  forgotten.  An  infant,  a  prattling  child, 
dying  in  its  cradle,  will  live  again  in  the  better  thoughts 
of  those  who  loved  it,  and  play  its  part,  though  its  body 
be  burned  to  ashes,  or  buried  in  the  deepest  sea.  There 
is  not  an  angel  added  to  the  hosts  of  heaven  bat  does 
its  blessed  work  on  earth  in  those  who  loved  it  here. 
Dead  !  Oh,  if  the  good  deeds  of  human  creatures  could 
be  traced  to  their  source,  how  beautiful  would  even 
death  appear  I  for  how  much  charity,  mercy,  and  puri- 
fied affection,  would  be  seen  to  have  their  growth  in 
dusty  graves  ! " 

Some  one  has  gathered  these  sweet  flowers  from  Dick- 
ens's writings,  and  strewn  them  on  his  grave  :  — 


382  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OP 

.  .  .  "■  The  spirit  of  the  child,  returning,  innocent  and 
radiant,  tonched  the  old  man  with  its  hand,  and  beck- 
oned him  away."  .  .  . 

..."  A  cricket  sings  upon  the  hearth,  a  broken 
child's  toy  lies  upon  the  ground,  and  nothing  else  re- 
mains." .  .  . 

..."  I  felt  my  old  self  as  the  dead  may  feel  if  they 
ever  revisit  these  scenes.  I  was  glad  to  be  tenderly 
remembered,  to  be  gently  pitied,  not  to  be  quite  for- 
gotten." .  .  . 

..."  When  I  die,  put  near  me  something  that  has 
loved  the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it  always."  .  .  . 

..."  Lord,  keep  my  memory  green  !  "  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "  '  Now,'  he  murmured,  '  I  am  happy.'  He  fell 
into  a  light  slumber,  and,  waking,  smiled  as  before  ; 
then  spoke  of  beautiful  gardens,  which  he  said  stretched 
out  before  him,  and  were  filled  with  figures  of  men, 
women,  and  many  children,  all  with  light  upon  their 
faces ;  then  whispered  that  it  was  Eden,  —  and  so 
died."  .  .  . 

..."  Died  like  a  child  that  had  gone  to  sleep."   .  .  . 

.  .  .  "And  began  the  world,  —  not  this  world,  oh! 
not  this,  —  the  world  that  sets  this  right."  .  .  . 

..."  Gone  before  the  Father,  far  beyond  the  twi- 
light judgment  of  this  world,  high  above  its  mists  and 
obscurities."  .  .  . 

..."  And  lay  at  rest.  The  solemn  stillness  was  no 
marvel  n^w."   .   .  . 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  383. 

...  "It  being  high  water,  he  went  out  with  the 
tide."  ... 

"  Dickens's  obsequies  were  simple,  as  he  desu-ed.  The 
news  that  a  special  train  left  Rochester  at  an  early  hour 
yesterday  morning,  and  that  it  carried  his  remains,  was 
soon  telegraphed  to  London  :  but  every  arrangement 
had  been  completed  beforehand ;  and  there  was  no  one 
in  the  Abbey,  no  one  to  follow  the  three  simple  mourn- 
ing-coaches and  the  hearse ;  no  one  to  obtrude  upon  the 
mourners.  The  waiting-room  at  Charing-cross  Station 
was  set  apart  for  the  latter  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour 
they  remained  there ;  the  abbey  doors  were  closed  di- 
rectly they  reached  it ;  and  even  the  mourning-coaches 
were  not  permitted  to  wait.  A  couple  of  street-cabs, 
and  a  single  brougham,  took  the  funeral-party  away 
when  the  last  solemn  rites  were  over;  so  that  passers-by 
were  unaware  that  any  ceremony  was  being  conducted : 
and  it  was  not  until  a  good  hour  after  that  the  south 
transept  began  to  fill.  There  were  no  cloaks,  no  weep- 
ers, no  bands,  no  scarfs,  no  feathers,  —  none  of  the 
dismal  frippery  of  the  undertaker.  Let  the  reader  turn 
to  that  portion  of  'Great  Expectations'  in  which  the 
funeral  of  Joe  Gargery's  wife  is  described,  he  will 
there  find  full  details  of  the  miserable  things  omitted. 
In  the  same  part  of  the  same  volume,  he  will  find  rever- 
ent allusion  to  the  time  when  'these  noble  passages  are 
read  which  remind  humanity  how  it  brought  nothing 


384 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF 


into  the  world,  and  can  take  nothing  out ;  and  how  it 
fleeth  like  a  shadow,  and  never  continneth  long  in  one 
stay  ; '  and  will  think  of  the  solemn  scene  in  Westminster 
Abbey  yesterday  morning,  with  the  dean  reading  our 
solemn  burial-service,  the  organ  chiming  in  subdued 
and  low,  and  the  vast  place  empty,  save  for  the  little 
group  of  heart -stricken  people  by  an  open  grave.  A 
plain  oak  cofQn,  with  a  brass  plate  bearing  the  inscrip- 
tion, — 

o 

CHARLES    DICKENS, 

Born  February  7th,  1812. 

Died  June  9tii,  1870. 


a  coffin  strewed  with  wreaths  and  flowers  by  the  female 
mourners,  and  then  dust  to  dust,  and  ashes  to  ashes, 
—  sucli  was  the  funeral  of  the  great  man  Avho  has 
gone.  In  coming  to  the  Abbey,  in  the  first  coach  were 
the  late  ]\Ir.  Dickens's  children,  —  Mr.  Charles  Dickens, 
jun. ;  Mr.  Harry  Dickens  ;  Miss  Dickens  ;  Mrs.  Charles 
Collins.  In  the  second  coach  were  Mrs.  Austin,  his  sis- 
ter; Mrs.  Charles  Dickens,  jun.;  Miss  Hogarth,  his  sis- 
ter-in-law ;  ]\Ir.  John  Forster.  In  the  third  coach,  ]\Ir. 
Frank  Beard,  his  medical  attendant ;  Mr.  Charles  Col- 
Ihis,  his  son-in-law ;  ]\Ir.  Ouvry,  his  solicitor ;  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins  ;  Mr.  Edmund  Dickens,  his  nephew. 

"  Charles  Dickens  lies  surrounded  1)y  poets  and  men 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  385 

of  genius.  Shakspeare's  marble  effigy  looked  yesterday 
into  his  open  grave ;  at  his  feet  are  Dr.  Johnson  and 
David  Garrick  ;  his  head  is  by  Addison  and  Handel ; 
while  Oliver  Goldsmith,  Rowe,  Southey,  Campbell, 
Thomson,  Sheridan,  Macaulay,  and  Thackeray,  or  their 
memorials,  encircle  him  ;  and  '  Poets'  Corner,'  the  most 
familiar  spot  in  the  whole  Abbey,  has  thus  received  an 
illustrious  addition  to  its  peculiar  glory.  Separated 
from  Dickens's  grave  by  the  statues  of  Shakspeare, 
Southey,  and  Thomson,  and  close  by  the  door  to  '  Poets' 
Corner,'  are  the  memorials  of  Ben  Jonson,  Dr.  Samuel 
Butler,  Milton,  Spenser,  and  Gray;  while  Chaucer,  Dry- 
den,  Cowley,  Mason,  Shadwell,  and  Prior  are  hard  by, 
and  tell  the  bystander,  with  their  wealth  of  great  names, 
how — 

" '  These  poets  near  our  princes  sleep, 
And  in  one  grave  their  mansion  keep.' " 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


AMERICA  S    SYMPATHY. 


How  the  News  of  Mr.  Dickens's  Death  was  received. —  Ilenry  "Ward  Bcecher's  Ser- 
mon.—  The  Voice  of  the  Press. 


"  Man  is  one; 
And  he  hath  one  great  heart.    It  is  thus  we  feel, 
With  a  gigantic  throb  athwart  the  sea. 
Each  other's  rights  and  wrongs :  thus  are  we  men  I  " 

Bailey's  Festcs. 

"And  whether  one  member  suffer,  all  the  members  suffer  with  it."  —  1  Cor.  xii.  26. 


ITH  simple  truth  "  The  Monthly  Religious 
Magazine  "  remarks,  — 

"  It  was  a  great  surprise  of  grief  which 
fell  upon  men  of  letters,  and  upon  the 
multitude  to  whom  the  name  of  Mr.  Dickens  had  long: 
been  a  synonyme  for  all  that  is  most  charming  in  the 
literature  of  fiction,  when  it  was  announced  that  he  had 
suddenly  ceased  from  his  labors,  and  fallen  asleep.  The 
press  of  two  continents,  of  all  shades  of  opinion,  politi- 
cal and  religious,  though  almost  stunned  by  the  tidings, 
quickly  rallied,  as  under  one  universal  inspiration,  with 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  387 

only  here  and  there  a  dismal  exception,  to  utter   its 
grateful  memory,  and  to  pour  out  its  mighty  sorrow. 

"  No  single  quality  so  much  distinguishes  the  pages 
of  this  admired  and  lamented  child  of  genius  as  their 
natural,  broad,  genial,   exquisitely  delicate  and  tender 
liumanity.     Indeed,  this  is  not  so  much  a  quality  as  the 
animating  spirit  of  them,  glowing  in  all  their  descrip- 
tions, in  their  incomparable  humor,  their  ready,  ingenuous 
wit,   their  tearful  but  quiet  pathos.     Mankind   is   liis 
debtor,  not  only  for  the  healthful  pleasure  which  has 
sprung  up  under  the  magic  of  his  pen   in   thousands 
of  homes  and  millions  of  hearts,  but  for  putting  into 
forms  so  attractive  and  fascinating  so  much  of  the  finest 
essence    of    Christianity.     We    say   this   with    careful 
deliberation.     In   all  the  volumes  which  Mr.   Dickens 
has  given  to  the  world,  we   remember  nothing   which 
should  make  a  Christian  blush  or  grieve  ;  whilst  we  do 
discover  pervading  them,  as  electricity  the  atmosphere, 
the  humanities,  the  charities,  the  noble  aspirations,  the 
enriching  faiths,  the  tender  and  soothing  hopes,  which 
are  the  sweet  and  beautiful  vhitage  of  the  True  Vine. 
.  .  .  Religion,  in  the  restricted  sense  of  the  word,  is 
not  the  only  chord  in  the  many-stringed  harp  of  human- 
ity  which    may   lawfully   be    touched   with   Christian 
fingers ;  but  he  who  brings  forth  dulcet  sounds  in  due 
proportion  from  each,  blending  them  all,  is  master  of 
the  divine  harmonies,  and  the  true  '  man  of  God.'     He 
is  the  real  artist,  trained  for  his  calling  by  apprentice- 


388  LIFE  AND  WETTINGS   OF 

ship  to  truth,  beauty,  and  love.  In  the  roll  of  sucli 
artists,  representatives  of  the  best  literature,  with  the 
heartfelt  assent  of  their  readers,  have  hastened  to  place 
the  brilliant  and  beloved  name  of  Charles  Dickens.  He 
is  at  rest  '  with  kings  and  counsellors  of  the  earth.'  All 
ranks,  from  the  most  humble  to  the  most  exalted,  mourn 
for  him,  even  as  they  have  rejoiced  in  him ;  but  they 
mourn,  not  as  though  he  had  just  begun  his  splendid 
career  of  beneficent  ministration  to  human  hapj)iness, 
but  as  for  one  who  has  finished  well  the  tasks  of  life  ; 
for  he  had  done  enough  for  his  fame,  and  far  more  than 
his  part  for  humanity ;  and,  after  all,  he  has  left  the 
most  and  the  best  of  himself  behind.  Let  his  requiem 
be  the  thanksgiving-psalms  of  the  vast  multitude  whose 
eyes  have  glistened,  and  whose  hearts  have  throbbed, 
under  the  wondrous  spell  of  his  creative  fancy.  His 
*  funeral  anthem,'  let  it  be  '  the  glad  evangel '  of  sym- 
pathy with  man  in  his  loneliness,  want,  struggle,  sorrow, 
and  sin,  which  his  silent  word  shall  preach  from  genera- 
tion to  generation." 

"  The  Boston  Transcript  "  publishes  this  extract  from 
a  private  letter  from  Jean  Ingelow :  "  You  know  by 
this  time  the  loss  we  have  sustained  in  the  death  of 
Charles  Dickens.  Literature  seems  to  have  lost  her 
king,  and  one  to  whom  almost  all  were  loyal.  He  was 
the  lord  of  laughter  and  of  tears.  The  old  dress  in 
which  mortals  used  to  be  presented  to  us  by  authors 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  389 

had  grown  shabby ;  but  he  dressed  human  nature  anew, 
showed  it  to  us  as  we  had  never  seen  it  before.  He 
made  what  was  homely  and  lowly  draw  near  to  be 
looked  at  and  loved." 

Thus  echoes  Henry  Ward  Beecher  the  cry  of  mourn- 
ing from  across  the  sea  :  — 

"  His  works  generally  produced  a  powerful  impression 
upon  the  many  wrongs  and  vices  which  they  sought  to 
remedy. 

"  And  while  the  question  of  Mr.  Dickens's  sphitual 
work  is  perhaps  one  that  we  are  not  authorized  to  de- 
cide, and  must  not  decide,  and  while,  certainly,  we  can- 
not reckon  him  as  among  the  highest  natures,  we  cannot 
withhold  from  him  our  gratitude  ;  and  we  cannot  but 
be  grateful  to  God  for  the  fact  that  he  was  raised  up  to 
do  in  a  lower  sphere  a  greatly  needed  work ;  which  he 
did  well. 

"  And,  liaving  done  his  work,  he  passed  from  tlie  stage 
of  life  as  one  might  wish  to  die, —  one  moment  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  his  faculties,  and  the  next  moment 
gone,  as  it  Avere.  I  will  still  cling  to  that  old  heresy,  the 
Episcopal  prayer-book  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 
I  should  never  pray  to  God  to  keep  me  from  sudden  death. 
Instead  of  that,  my  prayer  to  God  is,  that  he  will  cut  me 
off  suddenly.  I  do  not  want  to  be  like  an  old  liarness 
that  is  always  broken,  that  always  has  to  be  tied  up 


390  LIFE   AND  WRITINGS   OP 

■with  strings,  or  that  is  ahvays  being  carried  to  the  shop 
for  repah's,  and  is  always  good  for  nothing.  At  the  full 
of  hfe,  while  yet  his  mind  was  vigorous,  he  was  stricken 
down.  And  he  has  died  at  the  right  time,  —  at  the 
right  time  for  himself,  and  at  the  riglit  time  for  the 
world.  He  had  done  his  work ;  and,  such  as  it  was,  he 
had  done  it  well.  I,  for  one,  thank  God  for  the  life  of 
Charles  Dickens ;  and  I  thank  God  for  his  work. 
Though  I  do  not  regard  it  as  the  highest,  I  regard  it  as 
eminently  noble  and  useful. 

"  It  'w'ill  always  be  a  pleasant  thing  for  me  to  remem- 
ber that  he  spoke  in  our  church,  using  it  as  a  reading- 
haU." 

A  beautifid  tribute  is  that  of  George  William  Curtis 
in  "  Harper's  Weekly : "  — 

"  The  great  story-teller  is  the  personal  friend  of  the 
world ;  and,  when  he  dies,  a  shadow  falls  upon  every 
home  in  which  his  works  were  familiar,  and  his  name 
tenderly  cherished.  When  the  news  came  that  Dickens 
was  dead,  it  was  felt  that  the  one  man  who  was  more 
beloved  than  any  of  his  contemporaries  by  the  English- 
speaking  race  of  to-day  was  gone.  While  he  yet  lay  in 
his  own  house,  unburied,  the  thoughts  of  the  Avhole 
civilized  world  turned  solemnly  to  the  silent  chamber, 
and  gratefully  recalled  his  immense  service  to  mankind. 
What  an  amazing  fame !     What  a  feeling  to  inspire  ! 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  391 

When  Walter  Scott  drew  near  his  end,  he  said  to  his 
son-in-law,  Lockhart,  as  if  it  were  the  chief  lesson  of  his 
accumulated  experience,  '  Be  a  good  man,  my  dear.' 
Nothing  else  seemed  important  then.  Charity,  patience, 
love,  —  these  he  saw,  in  the  dawn  of  heavenly  light,  to 
be  the  only  true  possessions,  the  sole  real  successes. 
And  who  of  all  men  that  ever  lived  has  done  more 
to  make  men  good  than  Charles  Dickens  ?  and  what 
praise  so  pure  as  tliat  simple  truth  spoken  by  his  open 
grave  ?  .  .  . 

"  Even  at  the  very  moment  that  the  cunning  hand  was 
suddenly  stilled  forever,  how  many  thousands  of  readers 
in  England  and  America,  as  they  finished  the  beautiful 
tenth  chapter  of  '  Edwin  Drood,'  were  declaring  that 
Dickens  was  never  so  delightful  as  in  his  latest  work  ! 

"  And  so  our  friend  —  the  friend  of  all  honest  men  and 
women  stumbling  and  struggling  in  the  great  battle  —  sud- 
enly  ceases  from  among  us,  —  how  much  happier  for  him, 
and  for  all  of  us,  than  the  sad  decline  of  the  good  Sir 
Walter,  whose  powers  were  slowly  extinguished,  star  by 
star,  before  the  eyes  of  all  men,  who  therefore  could  not 
hear  of  the  end  but  with  a  tear  of  relief !  Now  we  can 
perceive  how  prophetic  was  the  feeling  of  sadness  with 
wliich  we  watched  Dickens  withdrawing  from  the  plat- 
form at  his  last  reading  in  Steinway  Hall.  All  the 
evening,  as  he  said,  the  shadow  of  one  word  had  im- 
pended over  us.  He  had  not  faltered  for  a  moment ; 
but,  strangely,  even  Pickwick  did  not  seem  gay.     The 


392  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS   OF 

feeling  of  deep  and  inexpressible  affection  for  the  man 
who  had  so  nobly  made  his  talent  ten  talents,  and  who, 
evidently  ill,  was  now  passing  from  our  sight  forever, 
overpowered  all  other  emotion.  The  vast  audience 
stood  cheering  and  tearful,  as,  gravely  bowing,  and 
refusing  all  assistance,  as  if  in  that  final  moment  he 
wished  to  confront  us  alone,  the  master  lingered  and 
lingered,  and  slowly  retired.  In  that  moment,  after  the 
long  misunderstanding  of  years  between  him  and  this 
country,  and  after  his  wholly  manly  and  generous  speech 
at  the  press  dinner,  our  hearts  clasped  his,  as  he  and 
Mark  Lemon  grasped  hands  over  the  grave  of  Thack- 
eray ;  and  henceforward,  and  for  all  the  future,  there 
was  to  be  nothing  in  American  hearts  but  boundless 
love  and  gratitude  for  Charles  Dickens." 

"  The  Overland  Monthly  "  contained  a  poetic  tribute 
of  rare  beauty,  entitled 

"  DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

"  Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting  ; 
The  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 
Their  minarets  of  snow. 

"  The  roaring  camp-fire  with  rude  humor  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form,  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth, 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  393 

"  Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew  ; 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 

"  And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  foster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  master 

Had  writ  of  Little  Nell. 

"  Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy,  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all ; 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  Ml. 

"  The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows. 

Listened  in  every  spray  ; 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  Nell,  on  English  meadows 

Wandered,  and  lost  their  way. 

"  And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  o'ertaken. 

As  by  some  spell  divine, 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

"  Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  ; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire  ! 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell. 

"  Lost  is  that  camp  ;  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills. 
With  hop-vines'  incense,  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 


394:  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS. 

"  And  on  tliat  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel-wreaths  intwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, 

This  spray  of  Western  pine." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE   INFLUENCE    OF    CHARLES    DICKENS. 


Sympathy  for  the  Poor.  —  Love  for  the  Young.  —  The  Golden  Rule. 

"  Rugged  strength  and  radiant  beauty, 
These  were  one  in  Nature's  plan  : 
Humble  toil  and  heavenward  duty, 
These  will  form  the  perfect  man." 

Mrs.  Hale. 

"  Love  worketh  no  ill  to  his  neighbor :  therefore  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law." 
-Rom.  xiil.  10. 


AMES  T.  FIELDS  bears  testimony  to  tlie 
unvarying  kindness  and  sympathy,  both 
of  heart  and  manner,  which  were  charac- 
teristic of  Charles  Dickens,  and  says,  — 


"  It  was  his  mission  to  make  people  happy.  Words 
of  good  cheer  were  native  to  his  lips ;  and  he  was 
always  doing  what  he  could  to  lighten  the  lot  of  all 
who  came  into  his  beautiful  presence.  His  talk  was 
simple,  natural,  and  direct,  never  dropping  into  circum- 
locution nor  elocution. 

"  Now  that  he  has  gone,  whoever  has  known  him  in- 

395 


396  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF 

timately  for  any  considerable  period  of  time  will  linger 
over  liis  tender  regard  for,  and  his  engaging  manner 
with,  children  ;  his  cheery  '  Good-day  ! '  to  poor  people 
whom  he  happened  to  be  passing  in  the  road  ;  his  trust- 
ful and  earnest '  Please  God  !  '  when  he  was  promising 
himself  "any  special  pleasure,  like  rejoining  an  old  friend, 
or  returning  again  to  scenes  he  loved.  At  such  times, 
his  voice  had  an  irresistible  pathos  in  it,  and  his  smile 
diffused  a  sensation  like  music." 

The  beautiful  tribute  which  Lydia  Maria  Child  paid 
to  Charles  Dickens  in  her  "  Letters  from  New  York," 
so  long  ago  as  1844,  deserves  a  place  here.  Speaking 
of  "  The  Christmas  Carol,"  she  says,  — 

"  It  is  a  most  genial  production,  —  one  of  the  sunniest 
bubbles  that  ever  floated  on  the  stream  of  light  litera- 
ture.    The  ghost  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  memory. 

"  About  this  '  Carol,'  I  will  tell  you  '  a  merry  jo}^'  as 
Jeremy  Taylor  was  wont  to  say.  Two  friends  of  mine 
proposed  to  give  me  a  New- Year's  present,  and  asked 
me  to  choose  what  it  should  be.  I  had  certain  projects 
in  my  head  for  the  benefit  of  another  person  ;  and  I  an- 
swered, that  the  most  acceptable  gift  would  be  a  dona- 
tion to  carry  out  my  plans.  One  of  the  friends  whom 
I  addressed  was  ill  pleased  with  my  request.  She  either 
did  not  like  the  object,  or  she  thought  I  had  no  right 
thus   to   change   the   appropriation   of   their"  intended 


CHARLES   DICKEXS.  397 

boiint}'.  She  at  once  said  in  a  manner  extremely  la- 
conic and  decided,  '  I  won't  give  one  cent ! '  Her  sister 
remonstrated,  and  represented  that  the  person  in  ques- 
tion had  been  very  unfortunate.  '  There  is  no  use  in 
talking  to  me,'  she  replied  :  '  I  won't  give  one  cent ! ' 

"  Soon  after,  a  neighbor  sent  in  Dickens's  '  Christmas 
Carol,'  saying  it  was  a  new  work,  and  perhaps  the  ladies 
would  like  to  read  it.  When  the  story  was  carried 
home,  the  neighbor  asked,  '  How  did  you  like  it  ?  '  —  'I 
have  not  much  reason  to  thank  you  for  it,'  said  she  ; 
'for  it  has  cost  me  three  dollars.'  — '  And  pray,  how  is 
that  ? '  —  'I  was  called  upon  to  contribute  towards  a 
charitable  object  which  did  not  in  all  respects  meet  my 
approbation.  I  said  I  wouldn't  give  one  cent.  Sister 
tried  to  coax  me ;  but  I  told  her  it  was  of  no  use,  for  I 
wouldn't  give  one  cent.  But  I  have  read  "  The  Christ- 
mas Carol,"  and  now  I  am  obliged  to  give  three  dollars.' 

"  It  is  indeed  a  blessed  mission  to  write  books  which 
abate  prejudices,  unlock  the  human  heart,  and  make  the 
kindly  sympathies  flow  freely." 

Useless  is  it,  and  worse  than  useless  is  it,  to  attempt 
to  gauge  the  character  of  Charles  Dickens  by  his  pro- 
fession or  non-profession  of  religion.  His  life  and  works 
attest  that  he  believed  in  the  golden  rule.  Well  says 
a  Chicago  writer  in  "  The  Liberal  Christian,"  — 

"  Wherever   the  English  tongue   is  spoken,  he   has 


398  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OP 

gone,  helping  to  make  the  world  brighter  and  better  by 
the  gift  of  his  peerless  genius ;  and  the  wliole  world  is 
in  mourning  because  he  is  not.  The  rare  old  motto, 
'  Speak  nought  but  good  of  the  dead,'  comes  before  us 
now ;  and  for  the  sake  of  all  he  has  been,  for  the  sake 
of  all  he  must  continue  to  be,  it  were  only  a  loving- 
kindness  that  can  now  find  expression  in  no  other  way, 
to  speak  nought  but  good  of  the  great  soul  that  was  too 
human  to  be  faultless,  but  so  tender  and  pitying,  that  it 
is  the  least  tribute  that  can  be  given  to  him  to  see 
through  our  tears  nothing  but  his  virtues.  He  was  the 
children's  friend  ;  and  none  loved  them  so  well  or  appre- 
ciated them  so  well  as  he.  And  in  that  home  whither 
he  hag  gone  from  out  our  longing  hold,  there  must  have 
been  a  great  chorus  of  sweet  child-voices  welcoming 
their  friend ;  and  Little  Nell  and  Walter,  Paul  Dombey, 
and  all  the  dear  children  that  owed  their  place  in  the 
world  to  him,  were  realities  that  welcomed  him  to  that 
fairer  home. 

"  To  us  who  are  left,  there  is  only  a  memory  and  the 
priceless  creations  of  his  pen ;  for  there  can  never  be 
another  to  wear  his  mantle  of  genius,  or  to  hold  us  cap- 
tive as  he  has  done." 

"  Let  us  do  him  no  injustice,"  adds  "  The  Independ- 
ent." "  We  content  ourselves  with  what  he  was,  —  a 
lover  of  his  kind,  a  friend  of  the  friendless,  a  champion 


CHARLES   DICKEXS.  399 

*■ 

of  the  poor,  the  degraded,  the  outcast,  the  forlorn.  His 
career  was  a  prolonged  beneficence  to  his  fellow-beings. 
It  may  be  said  of  his  books  that  they  made  '  a  circum- 
navigation of  charity.' 

"  We  have  a  special  love  for  each  particular  one. 
They  form  a  library  of  remembrance  that  fills  an  inner 
niche  in  our  heart  of  hearts.  It  is  hard  to  realize  that 
the  world  is  to  have  no  more  droppings  from  the  same 
pen,  which  are  now  ended  in  the  dropping  of  the  pen 
itself." 

Of  the  many  friends  of  Dickens,  perhaps  the  most 
intimate  was  Mr.  John  Forster,  the  biographer  of  Gold- 
smith and  Landor,  to  whom  Mr.  Dickens  dedicated  the 
last  editions  of  his  works  ;  and  it  seems  likely  that  upon 
Mr.  Forster  will  devolve  the  duty  of  writing  the  life  of 
his  friend.  Meanwhile,  this  memorial  volume,  by  an 
American  woman,  though  but  a  compilation,  will  pre- 
sent him  in  a  pleasant  light  to  the  homes  of  America  into 
which  it  shall  enter.  It  shall  be  closed  with  a  few 
grand  words  from  the  eloquent  discourse  of  Rev.  Wil- 
liam R.  Alger,  of  Boston,  as  follows:  — 

"  Dickens  has  ever  been  pre-eminently  distinguished 
for  the  democratic  breadth  of  his  affections,  which  irra- 
diate all  his  works  like  a  divine  sunshine,  revealing  the 
most  beautiful   qualities   in   the   lowliest  places.      He 


400  LIFE  AXD   "WRITINGS  OF 

spread  his  heart  out  to  embrace  all  that  was  human,  and 
to  lift  it  up  for  the  admiring  recognition  of  the  highest. 
His  writings  honor  human  nature,  and  "uill  for  ages  be 
an  influence  to  increase  the  sum  of  human  kindness  and 
enjoyment. 

"  His  task  is  done.  It  is  all  peaceful  and  well  witli 
him.  Advanced  above  pale  envy's  threatening  reach, 
he  recks  not  how  they  rave.  His  works  will  live  ;  and 
his  name  and  fame  are  safe.  He  who  has  done  so  much 
to  unfreeze  the  hearts  of  the  upper  classes ;  he  who 
has  written  so  many  passages  of  tenderness  which  none 
can  read  without  tears,  and  thousands  have  read  with 
convulsive  sobs,  —  will  never  fail  to  be  remembered 
with  affectionate  honor.  He  did  well  to  refuse  to  be 
baroneted.  Kings  take  not  rank  fi-om  their  inferiors : 
they  bestow  it. 

"  I  am  glad  they  laid  him  in  Westminster  Abbey  with 
such  democratic  simplicity,  on  that  June  day,  when,  as 
their  reverential  hands  bore  him  through  the  low  arch- 
way, the  same  English  birds  that  sang  to  Chaucer, 
Shakspeare,  and  ^Milton  were  warbling  from  every 
branch  and  coigne  of  vantage.  AVith  instinctive  fitness, 
they  buried  him  in  the  corner  of  the  poets  ;  for  he,  too, 
was  a  great  poet,  whose  words  will  make  millions  enjoy 
nature  more,  and  love  men  better.  How  sweet  sleep 
was  to  the  worn  and  sensitive  worker !  How  unspeak- 
ably welcome  was  every  soothing  tone  or  touch  of  love ! 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  401 

And  now,  deeply  and  forever,  the  weary  child  rests  in 
the  embrace  of  the  Infinite  Father,  where  the  perfect 
intercommunication  of  spirits  supersedes  every  symbol, 
martial  and  ecclesiastical  and  literary  alike,  and  all 
truth  is  at  once  its  own  pulpit  and  preacher." 


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The  keel  upon  the  shore. 

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LIFE  OF  NAPOLEON  IIL, 

EMPEROR    OF    THE    FRENCH. 

Embradng  a  Record  of  nearly  aU  the  Important  National  Events  which  have 
occurred  in  Europe  during  the  last  half  of  a  century. 

BY 

JOHN    S.    C.    ABBOTT, 

Author   of    "  History  of  Napoleon   I,"    "  French    Revolution,"    "  Civil  War  in 
America,"  "  Lives  of  the  Presidents,"  &c.,  &c. 


"  This  work  well  becomes,  in  its  size  and  mechanical  execution,  the  subjects  of 
which  it  treats.  France  of  all  countries,  the  French  of  all  nations,  and  Louis 
Napoleon  of  all  rulers,  furnish  the  most  interesting  materials  for  a  readable  book. 
Those  who  know  with  what  romance  Mr.  Abbott's  pen  invests  every  subject  of 
which  it  treats  may  well  expect,  in  this  royal  octavo,  interest  as  well  as  information. 
Nor  will  they  be  disappointed.  The  author  has  had  access  to  all  the  facilities  needed 
for  the  full  development  of  his  subject.  From  the  first  Napoleon,  the  annals  of 
France  have  been  full  of  thrilling  interest.  The  present  emperor  has  become  in  six- 
teen years  the  leading  spirit  in  modern  history,  and  is  a  marvel  in  himself.  Mr. 
Abbott  has  been  careful  to  give  documentary  proof  for  his  statements ;  and  those 
that  find  fault  with  his  details  must  blame  history,  and  not  the  historian."— Por<- 
land  {Me.)  Christian  Mirror. 


The  book  is  a  royal  octavo  of  about  700  pages ;  finely  illustrated  by  nine  pure 
line  steel  engravings,  executed  in  Paris  expressly  for  the  work ;  and  sold  only  by 
subscription. 

For  terms,  address 

B.  B.  RUSSELL,   Publisher, 

65  Cornliill,  Boston,  Mass. 


A  Book  for  every  Household  in  America. 


LIVES    OF   THE    PRESIDENTS 

OF    THE    UNITED    STATES, 
IFrom.   "Washington   to    the    Fresent    Tiine. 

ILLUSTRATED,  AND  COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 

BT 
JOHN    S.    C.    ABBOTT, 

Author  of  the   "Civil  War  in  America,"  "Life  of  Napoleon,"  "History  of  the 
French  Uevolution,"  "  Mother  at  Home,"  &c.,  &c. 


"  It  is  hardlj'  necessary  to  speak  well  of  a  book  written  to  carry  out  a  practical 
idea,  and  bj-  one  of  the  most  practical  writers  in  America.  There  is  not  a  politician, 
a  newspaper  editor,  or  Intelligent  citizen,  who  will  not  find  this  work  of  vast  ira- 
IJonance  to  him,  saving  much  labor,  and  therefore  time.  It  is  not  only  a  resume  of 
the  leading  events  in  the  characters  of  those  who  have  presided  over  the  Govern- 
ment, but  is  accompanied  by  philosophical  reflections,  and  by  what  we  are  pleased 
to  notice,  —  the  frank  objections  of  the  biographer  to  such  errors  as  may  have  been 
committed  by  these  Chief  Magistrates.  It  is' a  wonder  that  the  idea  of  such  a  book 
has  not  btfore  been  carried  out;  and  we  are  glad  that  it  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
a  gentleman  wliose  experience,  discrimination,  and  intelligence  qualify  him  to  give 
us  a  complete  and  standard  work  of  reference."  —  Washinaton  Chronicle. 


The  work  is  an  octavo  volume  of  520  pages,  Iiandsomely  illustrated  by  eight  steel- 
plate  illustrations,  and  thirty-six  engra\'ings  on  wood;  and  sold  exclusively  by  can- 
vassing Agents. 

For  terms,  addresi 

B.  B.  RUSSELL,  Publisher, 

55  CorulillI,  Boston,  Mass. 


THE 


Life  of  George  Peabody: 

CONTAINING    A    RECORD     OF    THOSE     PRINCELY     ACTS     OF     BENEVOLENCE     'WHICH 

ENTITLE  HIM  TO  THE  GRATITUDE   AND   ESTEEM   OF  THE   FRIENDS  OF 

EDOCATION  AND  OF  THE   DESTITUTE,   BOTH   IN    AMERICA, 

THE  LAND  OF  HIS   BIRTH,   AND   ENGLAND, 

the  place  of  his  death. 

By   PHEBE   a.    HANAFORD, 
Member  of  the  Essex  Institute,  and  author  of  "  Life  of  Lincoln,''^  tf-c. 

WITH   AN"   INTRODUCTIO:^"   BY   DR.  JOSEPH    U.  HAXAFORD. 


The  above,  copied  from  the  titlepage  of  the  book,  fully  explains  the  ■work.  That 
the  record  of  auch  a  life  will  be  instructive  and  interesting,  no  one  will  deny.  Mrs'. 
Hanaford's  ability  to  perform  the  task,  no  one  will  question.  She  was  well 
known  for  some  years  as  the  editor  of  "  The  Ladies'  Repository."  Her  experience 
as  a  writer  and  poetess  is  large;  and,  being  a  member  of  the  Essex  Institute  (an 
association  that  shared  largely  the  munificence  of  Mr.  Peabody),  her  facilities 
are«mple. 

I  need  not  enlarge  upon  the  desirableness  of  possessing  such  a  work.  As  Amer- 
ican citizens,  we  are  proud  of  the  name  of  George  Peabody.  And,  to  place  the 
book  within  reach  of  the  millions,  I  have  published  it  in  stj'le  and  price  suited  to 
the  times. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  present  a  long  list  of  testimonials :  a  few  will  indicate  the 
universal  favor  with  which  the  work  is  received  :  — 

"The  subject  is  a  most  interesting  one;  and  the  authoress  has  made  good  use  of 
the  most  abundant  material  at  hand."  —  Jiostoii  Traveller. 

"  Mrs.  Hanaford  has  had  ample  facilities  for  preparing  this  work ;  and  her  literary 
abilities  are  widely  known.  She  has  succeeded  in  making  a  readable,  accurate,  and 
very  desirable  book."  —  Boston  Post. 

'•  It  is  a  book  intended  for  circul.^tion  among  the  masses ;  and  Mrs.  Hanaford  has 
written  it  in  a  very  pleasant  and  attractive  style." —  Boston  Journal. 

"  Every  young  man  should  have  a  copy,  and  make  his  character  a  model  for  his 
future  life."  —  Sijracuse  Standard. 

"  Mrs.  Hanaford,  by  her  pleasant  and  welcome  style,  has  made  a  book  peculiarly 
attractive  to  the  masses;  and  everybody  will  be  gratified  and  benefited  by  reading 
it  " —  Northern  Advocate. 

•'  I  am  quite  delighted  with  the  neat  style  of  the  books,  which  came  to  hand  yes- 
terday."—  ^frs.  E.  C.  Smlthson,  New  Haven. 

1  am  constantly  receiving  similar  notices  of  the  press,  and  expressions  of  satis- 
faction from  my  agents  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 

TERM,S  OF  PUBLICATION.  —  The  work  contains  308  pages,  12mo;  illus- 
trated by  a  fine  Steel  Portrait  of  Mr.  Peabody,  and  six  other  illustrations,  including 
his  birthplace.    Sold  only  by  subscription. 

IP  I^  I O  E  s. 

Substantially  bound  in  Muslin,  $1.50.    In  Arabesque  llorocco,  $2.00. 

B.  B.  RUSSELL,  Publisher, 

65  Cornliill,  Boston. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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